


Recreate His Worldly Glory

by gremlinquisitor (suchanadorer)



Category: Dragon Age (Comics), Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anders (Dragon Age) is Dead, Background Alistair (Dragon Age), Background Bethany/Alistair, Canon-Typical Violence, Celibacy, Chaste Sebastian Vael, Circle Mage Bethany Hawke, F/M, Fertility Issues, Grief/Mourning, Illegitimacy, No Sex, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Anders/Female Hawke (Dragon Age), Post-Canon, References to canon deaths, Religious Discussion, intimacy without sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2020-12-07 15:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 216,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20978405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchanadorer/pseuds/gremlinquisitor
Summary: After the explosion of the Chantry and the deaths of Anders, Meredith, and Orsino, staying in Kirkwall is no longer an option. Sebastian brings Hawke and the others to Starkhaven with plans to take back his family’s throne and offer his friends as safe a haven as he can create. Starkhaven, however, proves to have secrets and challenges of its own. Sebastian is confronted with uncovered remnants of his past that will change his life forever, threatening to disrupt the new and fragile chaste relationship he has with Padi Hawke. Starkhaven offers Sebastian a future he never imagined for himself, but he must decide where his priorities lie and who he wants to share that future with.Starts at the end of Dragon Age 2 and goes through into Dragon Age: Inquisition. This fic is complete and will update once a week, hopefully on Thursdays as my schedule allows.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I joined Dragon Age fandom in July 2018; in August I got an idea and started writing the story that turned into this. This has been a while in coming, but I'm so glad to be able to share it at last. 
> 
> There are so many people who've helped me along the way, too many to name, but some stand out in the crowd of support I've had. Thank you so much to [aeducans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeducans) for your help with the first few chapters; I did my best to use what you taught me going forward! Thank you to [barbex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbex) for your fast and accurate beta reading, and thank you to [cullenlovesmen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/handersmyheart/pseuds/cullenlovesmen) for your constant enthusiasm and cheering me on.
> 
> Thank you also to every single person on the Writers of Thedas Discord server who suggested, commented, read, and listened. I really don't think this would've seen the light of day without your support!
> 
> Future chapters with potentially sensitive content will have notes at the start. Comments and kudos are always appreciated. :)

He wonders if he could make her laugh like that.

Likely not, he supposes, given that he can’t see Anders’ hands, and whatever he whispered to Hawke to make her blush, it was against the side of her neck. That doesn’t stop Sebastian from enjoying the sound of it, though, piercing like sunlight on dark water.

“Alright, you two try not to stay up too late. We have things to do tomorrow.” Hawke slides out of her chair with Anders close behind, grinning and rosy-cheeked from more than just the drink.

“You’re telling us that?” Varric fires back. “Me and Choir Boy? Go on, get out of here before Blondie drags you to an empty room upstairs.”

Her look lands somewhere between amused and scandalized, as if Varric had done something other than state the obvious. It doesn’t last, however, even if Sebastian thinks she holds his gaze for an extra moment before turning away, Anders’ arm around her waist, his head on her shoulder. There is the sound of stumbling on the stairs, and more laughter, before they are gone for good.

Varric slides his boots off the chair next to him without a word, thumping to the bar to leave Sebastian on his own. He hasn’t left; Sebastian is pretty sure he has a room here, though he doesn’t know for certain. It’s only them left at the table, after Merrill had admitted defeat and Aveline had followed along to make sure she got home. Fenris had soured at the company of mages and Chantry brothers soon after, preferring both his own company and his own wine. Isabela had been the first to leave, disappearing to the bar and not coming back, a development that didn’t seem to worry any of them. Her behavior often reminds Sebastian of his own in his youth, but his observations and advice have gone unheeded. He knows too well that with some lessons, experience is the only teacher, and so he’s left his concerns about her unmentioned this time.

Sebastian is staring into the fire trying very hard not to wonder what Anders and Hawke are doing when Varric returns, tankard in one hand and two small glasses in the other. He sets the tankard and one glass in front of himself then slides the other over in front of Sebastian, the amber liquid climbing the sides but not spilling over.

“Varric, I don’t--”

“It’s you, me, and the Maker, and I’m sure not gonna tell Him if you drink it.” He settles into his chair across from Sebastian. “Go on, you look like you need it.”

He does, and he’s not glad that Varric can see it. He knows exactly what the whiskey would feel like on his tongue; the burn on the back of his throat and the fuzziness in his head would all be welcome right now. The temptation is enormous, worse than it’s been all night -- worse than it’s been in years -- and Varric’s put it right here in front of him.

He steeples his fingers, resting his forehead on his thumbs to stare down at the glass as if that will make it go away. “I shouldn’t.”

“Add it to the list of things you’re gonna beg forgiveness for in the morning.” He says it like it’s nothing, and Sebastian supposes that to him, it likely is. 

Notes of oak and earthy peat reach his nose, and he sighs. “Better to sin less and have a shorter list.”

“Better to take your mind off Hawke leaving with him instead of you.”

Heat crawls up the back of Sebastian’s neck and he swallows before he speaks. This is so much worse than Varric thinking he just wanted a drink. “I don’t know what you--”

“Okay, sure thing.” Varric cuts him off.

Sebastian doesn’t look up, but he hears the scrape of Varric’s tankard on the table. “For what it’s worth, I think you did well tonight. He tried at least twice to pick a fight with you and you didn’t rise to it.”

Sebastian nods. He’s noticed that as well. Anders has refused to join them more often than not as of late, and been more volatile when he has made an appearance: quicker to anger and harder to calm, or at least harder for anyone other than Hawke. She can still silence him with a word or a touch, banishing that sickly blue light in his eyes. Sebastian likes to think that he is open to debate, to hearing the viewpoints of others, however Anders has not been interested in an exchange of ideas, at least not genuinely. Instead, he has seemed to be looking to blame the Chantry for the plight of the mages, turning on Sebastian as the embodiment of it, calling Elthina names, even mocking his armor. Sebastian will gladly stand as a shield to protect Elthina and the others, but that does not mean sinking to Anders’ level of personal attacks.

“If I drink this,” he asks, nodding down towards the glass, “will you talk about something other than Hawke and Anders?”

Varric laughs, and it’s muffled behind his drink. “Yeah.”

He plucks the glass between fingers that remember the weight of it all too well, downing it in one go, straight to the back of the throat. 

_ Just like old times. _

He hates himself immediately.

_ Andraste, forgive me for my weakness. _

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Sebastian trying to ignore the taste in his mouth, the slow spreading warmth, equal parts nostalgia and the actual effect of the drink. He could forget all of this for a night, sink into a honey-colored stupor to ease the aches in his body and his soul. 

_ No. _

He pushes his chair back and stands. “Thank you for the company, and the drink. I should--”

“She cares about you, you know.” Varric is staring straight ahead, shifting his gaze to look up at Sebastian only after he’s stopped talking.

The air in the room thickens in his throat, leaving Sebastian struggling to draw a full breath. Varric’s words hit harder than the drink, and even if Varric thinks he knows, that doesn’t mean that Sebastian wants to talk about it. Or even admit there’s anything to talk about. 

“Hawke cares about everyone,” he offers. “That’s what she does, she--”

“Not like this,” Varric counters, looking down into his tankard, like he’s trying to leave Sebastian alone while still talking to him. “Trust me, the way she looks out for you out there?” He shakes his head as if he can’t quite believe it himself. “I’ve seen her save your life. _ Desperately _ save your life.”

That’s embarrassing on a number of levels. Even if Sebastian has seen Hawke save others and knows that the preservation of life is always her goal, he can’t help but think back over every close call and wonder which of them Varric saw, what he means, and what he himself might have missed in the moment. Sebastian sighs, shifting his weight and pushing a hand back through his hair. The tavern was warm before, now it’s approaching unbearable. 

“And? So? Even if it’s true, what good does that do, telling me?”

Varric shrugs. “You didn’t know. Now you do. What you do with it, however.” He draws a breath and looks down into the last of his beer. “Is entirely up to you. Good night, Choir Boy. Tell Andraste I said hi.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	2. Leaving Kirkwall

_ Maker preserve their souls. _

The arrow flies fast and true from Sebastian's bow, burying itself deep in the side of the Templar's neck. He falls to his knees, then face down in the sandy grit that lines the path, his sword arm stretched out to where Sebastian is already backing away, as if asking for help with the wound. Where one falls, however, two more appear, and Sebastian can only shake his head as he lowers his bow, turning to run for cover. 

"They’re blocking everything!" Bethany's frustration is clear in her voice as Sebastian runs past her. She's looking down at her hands with a deep frown; the ozone smell of her force magic lingers in the air but Sebastian hears the spell fizzle and fail, dispelled by another Templar's lyrium-fueled skills. The templars have followed the party out of the city, bent on the destruction of Hawke and anyone who runs with her. Their pursuit made the alienage unreachable, as well as most of Lowtown and the Hawke Estate. Sebastian followed with the others as they rushed to the edge of the city to the path they took to the mountains, their escape bathed in so many colors as to be surreal. Bethany and Merrill threw spells over their shoulders as they ran, finding momentary alliances with other mages intent on stopping any Templars they saw.

The party is not quite to the forest yet and cover is difficult to find, but the Templars are all armed with swords and shields with no real way to attack from a distance. Hawke is ahead of Sebastian's position, slumped against a boulder with Varric covering her. The wound on her face is a dark, sickly red, and Sebastian's heart stutters to see it, the rest of her horribly pale in comparison. Merrill is on the other side of the stone, and her grin is matched by a crunch behind Sebastian and the strangled scream of another Templar. Fenris and Aveline are already at the crest of the hill, swords drawn as they wait for the others to either join them in retreat or show need of their assistance.

"You men there! What do you think you're doing?" The voice is familiar, but so unexpected that Sebastian skids to a halt and turns back to look. Knight-Captain Cullen appears behind the Templars, who all seem as confused as Sebastian and the others. 

"Knight-Captain, ser, we were--"

He gives them no time to make an argument. "Kirkwall is overrun with apostates and the Chantry is in flames! Is this really the best use of your time?"

The Templars’ heads swivel from the party to Cullen and back, and they gape at him. "But ser--"

"I'll not hear it," Cullen stops them again, sighing heavily as he sticks his sword into the path and leans on the pommel. "I'll deal with this, but I want you all back in the city now. Go!"

The final snarl sets the Templars to running, though they look back over their shoulders as they go. They have quite the march ahead of them. Sebastian hadn't realized how far they'd been chased until he stands and watches the retreat. Beyond them, smoke still rises from Kirkwall and the wind plucks at it, carrying the smell of it and pushing at their backs as if to send them all away, begging them to take their destruction with them. Sebastian fights against the instinct to scan the ruined line of the city, searching through the flames to find the hole where the Chantry stood for centuries. They are too far away for the wind to bring the sound of screams to his ears, and yet he hears them all the same. Some of them are his own, Revered Mother Elthina’s name sticking in his throat.

The clatter of armor fades and leaves behind an awkward, stretching silence as Cullen stares at the group at large, no one daring to make the first move. Sebastian looks back over his shoulder to see Varric heft Bianca in his hands, all his attention now focused on the one Templar who remains. Bethany’s face is a mask of anger and her fists crackle at her sides.

"You'll deal with us, then?" Aveline shoulders past Sebastian, pushing him off to one side despite the path being more than wide enough for both of them. She shoots him a look as she moves by him and Sebastian lowers his eyes and looks away. As she approaches Cullen, she has her shield lowered but her sword still in hand.

Cullen nods, glancing warily at each of them in turn. "I was hoping you'd come this way. I brought what I could carry." He moves while he talks, and everyone tenses where they stand when he disappears behind a cluster of bushes and produces bags with food, bedding, and weapons. If many of these supplies are marked with the Templar seal, that isn’t something Cullen can help, and it isn’t as if the blankets will be less warm for that. Sebastian notes the dark look that passes between Bethany and Merrill as they take the blankets, re-rolling them to hide the Sword of Mercy, and even he finds himself unable to summon any interest in the bedding beyond its usefulness, no longer impressed by the Templar order. He offers a mumbled thank you to Cullen as he takes the offered bag, and Cullen nods dumbly in reply.

There is no offer made to Cullen to come along, an unspoken understanding that he would not leave Kirkwall, but they find themselves lingering with him before finally heading north, away from the city. They speak little, as if saying goodbye to Cullen meant saying goodbye to Kirkwall, a commitment they aren’t ready to put words to, even if Hawke made it clear after the battle that she had no intention of staying a minute longer than she had to. In the end Cullen lowers his head in a bow and leaves them, wishing them well. Together they move on in silence, the clangs and cries of battle left behind them. 

The dry, packed earth around the city quickly gives way to grasses, then to the edges of a forest as they trudge on. Fenris leads them, white hair almost seeming to shine in the failing light, a beacon at the front of the group. He’d camped in the mountains before coming in to Kirkwall, and had assured them all that he knew the way out just as well. Behind him is Hawke, walking on her own but with Bethany and Merrill on either side of her, the dark-haired mages watching her warily. Canut, Hawke’s loyal brindle mabari, pads along at their heels. From behind them Sebastian can’t see what has them fussing over her, but when they’d been trying to reach the estate there’d been a moment to breathe, to assess the most obvious damage, things that would need tending before they left. The wound across her face is deep but not dangerous, and her eye suffered no damage. The other two look back at him occasionally, their expressions unreadable, though Bethany’s is softer.

Varric follows behind the trio, Bianca in his hands and grim darkness in his golden-brown eyes. His gaze leaves Hawke only to follow the sound of snapping twigs or a bird taking flight. His caution is commendable, Sebastian thinks, even if most of the noise is Canut sniffing in the bushes off the trail, brindle fur serving to hide the massive, muscular dog among grasses and shadows of the trees. For all his nonchalance and affability, Varric is a formidable archer and Sebastian is glad to have him on their side, knowing that Varric would do anything for the woman in front of them.

Aveline is last before him. He studies her shield while they march, her red hair and broad shoulders all but obscured by it. Sebastian wonders at the marks in it, what battles they must come from, her own and Ser Wesley’s before her. He can read her anger in the set of her shoulders and the way that she treats him with silence. She has never been the most talkative of the group, even when Sebastian had tried to learn more about her, but this hangs heavier, the silence itself conveying meaning. 

The silence of all of them is telling.

They are all mourning, but Sebastian knows he is the only one who mourns the loss of Elthina, of the beautiful Chantry he’d come to call his home, of all the souls within it and near it. He mourns their losses as well - Merrill’s home, the Hawke estate, Aveline’s place among the guard - though he doubts they are thinking of his. He had seen them all in the Gallows, the way they stared as if he was the madman among them. Perhaps there was some truth to it. What man would not be driven mad by the loss of his family twice over in so short a time? He had demanded justice then; should he have done less than that for Elthina?

Of course, they’d seen something different. Anders had been a part of their lives for longer, had done more for all of them, and Sebastian had demanded his death. He’d heard Anders’ name whispered as they’d looked over their injuries, muttered frustration perhaps that their best healer was no longer with them. What he’d done to the Chantry, to Kirkwall, had not been healing, but this seems to matter less to the others than to Sebastian.

Hawke offered no suggestions for their destination when she led them out of Kirkwall, saying only that she couldn't stay in the city. Her resolution startled them, leaving even Varric speechless, but they followed. Their trust in her still seemed steadfast despite the lack of explanation, as if they all agreed that Hawke would figure it out eventually; she always did. Sebastian believes in her as well and yet he sees the opportunity to help, if the rest of the group is interested. He suspects he is the only one with a destination in mind. 

It’s a mad prospect, perhaps, to reverse the decision that he already made, but he can not stay in the Chantry in Kirkwall because there no longer _ is _ a Chantry in Kirkwall. There is only a smoking crater, the remnants of the act of a fanatic, and while he could stay and help rebuild the city, his heart would not be in it. If the Maker's hand was in the destruction of Kirkwall then perhaps some part of it was to show Sebastian what he must do. And so he will return to Starkhaven, to reclaim his family’s throne. Suggesting it to the others will wait, as he suspects his home will be as unpopular a choice as he himself is at the moment. 

Now that they are farther from the city, he gives in to the temptation, his body mirroring his thoughts as he turns to gaze back over his shoulder at the pillar of smoke that fades against the darkening sky. It hurts to see it. Sebastian scolds himself for his inability to resist, even when he knew it would do it him no good, and he hurries to look away.

The sun slips low in the sky, and Fenris pauses. “We need to camp.” 

The others blink and look up at him, and Sebastian as well, startled out of his thoughts by the first words anyone has spoken in hours. Merrill draws a breath and glances around as if to re-orient herself, and Varric lowers Bianca, as if Fenris’ statement is an indicator of safety. 

Fenris’ head swivels, exacting, almost mechanical as he scans the patchy land ahead of them. “This way,” he barks, setting off northeast. No one protests. They are past the low parts of the mountains they’re all familiar with, into territory none of them have traveled through before, perhaps save the elves. It doesn’t take long for them to come to a clearing, a ring of stones in the center for a fire pit. They are not so high in the mountains yet that they are completely free from the threat of being discovered, but they are well-armed, and the disaster in Kirkwall has likely distracted anyone who might stop here otherwise.

Having come to relative safety, the party stops, dazed, standing in a loose circle around the cold ashes of some long abandoned fire. Sebastian looks across to see green-grey eyes watching him, and Fenris gives him a nod. They haven’t spoken since leaving the city, but somehow Sebastian thinks that if anyone understands his rage, it’s Fenris. He had posited that Anders wanted to die. Sebastian is less certain. Perhaps Anders hadn’t expected to survive the explosion and the aftermath, but that did not mean that it was an act of mercy to kill him. No matter what Anders wanted, mercy would have been to save his life, but Sebastian had had no interest in mercy, only in seeing justice swiftly carried out. He had not been the only one calling for Anders’ death, yet all the blame is being laid at his feet, even if no one has said as much. They don’t need to. 

“We need wood,” Sebastian says, not sure if he should be the one making suggestions, but not wanting to wait any longer. It is too easy for all of them to sink into their own thoughts and not return to the situation at hand. “And food, if we want something cooked. I can--”

“I’ll get the wood, it’s all right.” Merrill hurries to volunteer, giving Hawke one more look over before she turns to the low trees nearby to search for kindling. She flashes Sebastian a nervous smile as she goes, green eyes bright and the little ponytails in her hair bouncing around the points of her ears as she heads off.

Aveline shifts beside him. “I’ve hunted before, I’ll take care of it.”

“Aveline, I--” Sebastian furrows his brow and turns to look at her. He’d been prepared to take on the task himself. It would be easiest with a bow and arrow, but Hawke is in no condition and somehow he doesn’t think that Varric is much for hunting.

“I will do it.” Her tone allows for no argument, and neither does the look she levels at him. “_ You’ve _ done enough for one day, don’t you think?” 

Sebastian is startled by the anger in her deep green eyes. Aveline is captain of the city guard, surely she should understand the need to stop a violent force that had attacked her city. Before he can answer, her gaze cuts to the side to where Hawke is standing, staring down at the empty fire pit. He _ sees _her now, the first good look he’s had since the chaos of the battle and their escape. He’s aware of Aveline moving off out of the corner of his eye but the motion barely registers as his attention turns to the Hawkes.

Bethany’s cuffs are stained from where she’s tried to wipe the blood from her sister’s face, and there are singe marks on her robes as well, remnants of the battle at the Gallows, magic from allies misdirected by the skills of the Templars. Her shoulders are hunched and he can see the tension in her jaw as she watches Hawke, seemingly uninterested in the activity around them, though Sebastian knows better. Bethany is more observant than she lets on, and to think that she is not aware of the others would be to underestimate her.

For all that Bethany has tried to help, there are still streaks around Hawke’s wound, and beneath that, her eyes are red and swollen. Hawke holds one hand with the other, thumb rubbing at raw knuckles, and he can see her flinch at the sting of it. Her hair hangs long in a loose ponytail, strands sticking to her face. She looks worse than he has ever seen her, even in the days after Leandra’s death when she had seemed at her most lost, most haunted. Canut sits at her feet, nosing at her leg in an unanswered attempt to get attention. In contrast to her sister, Sebastian is unsure that Hawke is entirely aware of where they are and what is going on around them, and it is a frightening thought.

Bethany waves a hand over the pit dug into the ground; a fire springs to life, and immediately he feels foolish, one more loop added to the knot of shame in his stomach. Sebastian’s suggestion that they collect wood had been practical but made without the consideration that they have mages with them. He is unaccustomed to being surrounded by magic like this, to the idea that it can be used for such an everyday purpose, and he wonders if this sort of thing is part of their training. All he knows is what he’s heard of the Circles, and his time with Hawke continues to show him how narrow that is. Practical magic, harmless things that would make the everyday a little easier. It’s a thing that people should know, amidst all the talk of the dangers of mages.

Hawke’s eyes fall closed as the warmth reaches her, and Sebastian watches as Bethany whispers to her. Where Bethany’s hair is dark and kept shorter, just past her shoulders, her sister’s is blonde and so long as to seem impractical, nearly to her waist. They both share the same pale skin and light eyes, but Bethany’s are blue where her sister’s are green. Despite this, the family resemblance is unmistakable.

Sebastian can’t hear what they’re discussing, but sees when Hawke nods, leaning against her sister as Bethany wraps her arms around her. There is a flicker of warm light and Hawke goes limp, falling against her sister. Sebastian takes a step forward, fearing the worst, even as Bethany lowers her gently to the ground, pillowing her head on her mantle. She stays crouched by her sister’s head, her own face hidden by loose curls, but as he watches her pick locks of hair away from Hawke’s face and smoothes them back gently, Sebastian thinks he understands. Hawke needs rest, perhaps more than any of them, and Bethany had supplied. This, again, is a use of magic that he would not have considered.

“Lady Hawke-- Bethany. Do you have a moment?”

Her brows knit in confusion when he calls to her, and she looks from him to her sister and back as she starts to rise, giving Hawke’s wrist a squeeze before moving away. “Yes?”

Sebastian shifts his weight, clears his throat as he tries to fight down the fear that seems to stick to his tongue. Bethany is one of the warmest people he knows, and yet even her tone is cool with him. It is starting to become clear to him that he has done something very wrong, something beyond his understanding of their anger. 

“I-- How are you?” He asks, carefully. “How is Hawke?”

Bethany’s expression opens, and for a moment she just blinks at him. “Me? I don’t know. I’m not hurt, if that’s what you mean.” She pauses, furrowing her brow. “Worried about her, though. She’s resting now, and Maker knows she needs it. She’s been through a lot.” There’s an edge to her voice that Sebastian shies away from, but it softens as she continues. “She didn’t want to wait to lie down, said it was okay if I dropped her, but I couldn’t just let her fall.”

“We’ve all been through a great deal,” he concedes, even as Hawke’s words worry him. “I am sorry, for the way that it all… For--”

“I don’t think I’m the one you need to apologize to,” Bethany replies. She lowers her head a little, trying to catch his gaze, but he can’t bring himself to look at her. “You understand, don’t you?”

He breathes out a deep sigh through his nose before lifting his eyes, trying to tamp down his frustration so she doesn’t see it there. “He was dangerous. He-- What he did, he--”

Bethany shakes her head and he stops. There is fire in her eyes, but something like pity as well, which Sebastian cannot interpret. She is compassionate, but this is not sorrow for his loss.

“It’s not that Anders died,” she hisses, whispering the name. “I mean, yes, it is that he died, but you weren’t the only one who…” She doesn’t say it, and somehow that feels right to him. Bethany should not speak of death and destruction and the horrors that they’ve seen. Sebastian stood at her side as they battled the Knight-Commander, yet there is still something of a child in her, and he does not ever want to see that spoiled. “You have a bow, Sebastian,” she continues, insistent and frustrated, her voice kept low. “You have knives. Yet you made _ her _ do it. You’re not the only one who thought it needed to be done, but why did it have to be her that did it?”

Her words fall into place like the key in a lock; a door opens in his mind and he reels as he’s stuck by sudden understanding. Every cold glance, every tight-lipped comment since the explosion, they all make sense to him now, obvious in the harsh light of this realization. In his rage he had seen only Anders, a murderer, and Hawke, their ever-present leader. In his mind, of course it should be Hawke who delivered justice, as she always did. In that moment, her love for Anders had not been a consideration, but now he sees what a monster he must have appeared to them. It is no wonder that they don’t spare a thought for his grief.

“Maker, no,” he whispers, his hand coming up to cover his mouth and chin, rubbing at them. “No. What have I done.”

The sensation of Bethany’s hand on his arm comes to him through a fog. Part of him wants to go off by himself into the trees to be sick, and another part of him wants to not come back to camp afterwards, but her touch pulls him back, and he is grateful for the way the simple gesture anchors him. He burns with shame, closes his eyes so that perhaps she won’t see.

“_And I will bring such an army on my return that there will be nothing left of Kirkwall for these maleficarum to rule! _”

His own words come back to him and a chill passes over him. In his rage, he offered up an impossible ultimatum to her - her love, or her home. He left her no choice that would allow her to be happy, and the decision has now cost her both Anders and Kirkwall. _ What has he done? _

“I want to help her. Bethany, please. Is there something I can do?”

She huffs out a sigh, and for a moment he thinks that she will refuse to help him. He would accept it, keep to himself, but he hopes that there is something to be done to start to repair the damage he’s caused.

“I suppose. I thought I’d try to wash her face a little while she rests,” Bethany offers. “Get the blood off, wash her hands, that sort of thing. Fenris brought water, it’s warming near the fire. She’s resting now, so be gentle with her this time.”

“I didn’t--” He stops himself as the full impact of Bethany’s sharp words hits him. It’s unlike her, but it’s no less than he deserves. “I will. Thank you, Lady Hawke.”

Just as she’d said, there is a wooden bowl of water warming by the fire, and what hasn’t been poured into the bowl is in a waterskin nearby. He fishes a cloth out of one of the pouches on his belt as he settles down beside Hawke. He’d started carrying them during his time in the Chantry, finding that the simple gesture of offering a kerchief could do wonders for someone who needed it. 

He wets the cloth, holding it in one hand and setting the fingers of his other hand lightly on Hawke’s cheek, only enough to hold her in place. He’s careful with her, not wanting to wake her or frighten her with the sudden contact. Her eyelids flutter but don’t open, and for a moment he waits, watching her face and the rise and fall of her chest. It is not only caution that keeps him from starting immediately; she is beautiful, and he is rarely afforded such a moment where he can admire her without trepidation. The other movements in the camp are distant to him as he focuses on Hawke, but the crunch of a boot on a branch startles him and breaks him from his idle observations, a flush crawling over his face and neck. He came here to help her, not to stare.

“I’m sorry, Hawke,” he whispers, starting far from the wound, using little strokes to work at the dried blood and grime. “I never wanted to see you hurt. I never wanted a war, or any of this. The Chantry was my home, Elthina was a mother to me, more than my own mother after I came to Kirkwall.”

Sebastian dips the cloth back into the water, wringing it out with one hand. A warm metallic smell blooms around them and his stomach turns again. Her face is cleaner now, bruises starting to show. Her eye is swollen under the wound, but not so badly that it appears anything is broken. He’s done what he dares to do to clean the wound itself without disturbing her. They had packed it with a healing poultice before leaving the city, and already he can see that it’s working. There will be a scar, but no more permanent damage than that.

“But Elthina, she wasn’t everything, not by the end.” He sighs, moves an errant lock of hair off of her forehead, his fingers lingering along her hairline. “I don’t know. I don’t mean to presume, but perhaps… perhaps I had more than I thought in Kirkwall.”

As soon as he says it, he shakes his head, as if to dispel the thought. However he might see the other members of the party, he must accept that it is likely one-sided, especially now. It seems unlikely to him that Merrill will still be interested in explaining her faith or the history of her people to him, or that he and Bethany will have another conversation about the Chant. All this, to say nothing of losing Hawke’s respect and trust. That is the worst of all. 

He takes one of her hands and sets it in his lap, gently loosening the wrist guard before slipping it off over reddened knuckles. He lays the cloth over her hand, letting the water work for a moment before he begins.

“I am not the only one who lost someone they loved today. I know you love Anders, and he loved you, and I know you didn’t know what he was planning, and-- I should never have put you in that position. I should not have forced you to choose between protecting Anders or protecting your home. I hope you can forgive me.” The Archon had sought to cleanse the earth of poison with fire and lighting; Sebastian has only soft cloths and water as he works to do the same for Hawke. He draws the cloth over her hands from wrist to fingertips, again and again, each pass removing more blood and grime, showing more clean skin. She remains unmoving, and he has no idea if she can hear him. He isn’t sure if he wants her to, but that doesn’t stop him from speaking. These things need to be said out loud. “Kirkwall was my home, too. I never meant...“ He sighs, unable to finish the sentence honestly. “An army there would not have been what I wanted.”

Even so, would have done it. He knows himself well enough to admit it. If he’d had an army at his call when his family was murdered, he would have burned the Marches to find who did it and show them justice, and he’d felt the same rage when the Chantry was destroyed. Elthina was his family as well. In his heart, he gave away his right to be Prince when he decided to stay in Kirkwall, but with the Chantry in ruins he has a renewed claim to Starkhaven’s throne and the forces attached to it. To hunt down the man who killed Elthina, he would have used that claim and the power behind it to invade Kirkwall. 

He lifts his eyes and looks around at the others gathered by the fire. Merrill has returned, a pile of kindling nearby to feed the fire through the night. Aveline is there as well, though he sees no sign of any bounty. He’s not even sure what there is to hunt in the hills. Varric is nodding off where he sits, and Fenris is barely visible in the shadows, patrolling the edge of their camp. Bethany is the only one who watches him openly, her cheek resting on her fist where she sits a bit away from her sister. These people who had gone with Hawke, and with him, to avenge his family and bring him justice. Who fought to bring what peace they could to their city, who had allowed him to walk with them and accepted him when they had no reason to. Are they not also his family? 

And he had threatened them all with an army.

He cannot beg forgiveness of all of them, not as he has done here with Hawke, but he can try to replace what was taken from them, offer them a new home and the promise of his protection in the time to come. They have no reason to trust him; the burden is on his shoulders to prove that he means well, to act honorably going forward. He will make amends through actions as well as words, and work to fix some of what he sees now he had a hand in breaking.

They eat in silence, a simple meal of bread, cheese, and dried meat shared around the fire. It was a long day for all of them, and exhaustion wraps itself around each in turn. Sebastian volunteers for the first watch, brushing aside Fenris’ protests that he can stay up all night. Fenris has led them this far, and will likely be leading them again tomorrow. He will need sleep so that he can think clearly on the path through the mountains. 

Fenris agrees after some discussion, stretching out almost immediately afterwards, hands folded behind his head. Bethany and Merrill sleep on either side of Hawke, Bethany curled in tight against her sister’s side, all three of them wrapped in the blankets that Cullen had given them. Varric sleeps with his head near Hawke’s, and Aveline is not far from her feet. It takes only moments for Sebastian to find himself alone as the only one awake in camp, save the mabari, apparently content to follow him as he walks. He doesn’t mind. He will watch over them, allow them what peace and rest they can find, and take this first step to earning their trust again.

The darkness settles in around them, sounds of the hills giving way to a denser, late-night quiet. Sebastian keeps himself some distance from the fire, finding that the chill keeps him alert, and that watching the trees and sky helps his eyes adjust to the dark, rather than the light of the camp. He walks in slow loops around the perimeter of the clearing, bowstring loose, arrow in hand. He does not anticipate that they will be found, doubts even that they are being looked for, but he doesn’t want to take chances with their safety.

The stars move slowly overhead as the hours pass, and Sebastian’s thoughts wander as he paces. He replays the day in his mind, each failure stinging like the strike of a switch. Some linger longer than others; the knowledge of how he’s betrayed Hawke hurts most of all, as it should. Eyes sweeping the edge of the camp, he reassures himself for the time being that they are alone in the mountains, and relaxes his hold on his bow. Sebastian drops one knee to the hard ground, setting aside his weapon. 

“Maker, hear my prayer. Forgive me, for I have sinned. I have spoken and acted in anger against those I care for, been vengeant and wrathful against those who--“ He pauses, taking a deep breath and licking his lips. “Against those who sought to free others from oppression, and against those who have walked with me in Your Light. I was thrown into darkness when Mother Elthina was taken to Your side, too soon and in violence along with many others. In my weakness, I was consumed by anger and pride, and I threatened innocents.” _ You have brought Sin to Heaven, and doom upon all the world. _The words echo in his head as he speaks. Kirkwall was no golden city, but he must accept the part he played in ruining it for Hawke, for all of them.

His head falls forward, forehead coming to rest against his knuckles where his hands are folded together, and for a moment he just breathes. “I demanded the death of one desperate man in order to spare an entire city, yet I was too weak to avenge Elthina myself. I placed this burden on a woman most dear to me, and she saw it done. He was a murderer, an abomination, a--” His knuckles have gone white with pressure, and he spits his words through clenched teeth. It is no way to ask forgiveness, and so he stops, again, to collect himself. “Forgive me, and guide me on a path to peace. My anger is unworthy of You. Maker, I beg You, forgive her for this act, for it should have been mine. Place this mark on me. Bless her. Bless all those who walk with me, and grant me the strength and courage to protect them on this journey, and always. Bless those souls who were brought to Your side on this day.”

He can not stay kneeling, can not continue with closed eyes and bowed head. The others are sleeping, and he is charged with protecting them, even now, and he does not want to falter, not when he has been given their trust again. Sebastian stands and stretches, bending to scratch Canut behind the ears. The mabari pants happily, jumping up on him so that he has to brace himself before setting the dog back down. He turns to look over the others where they are huddled together, all of them touching in some way, connected to each other; even Fenris has rolled onto his side, one arm stretched in the direction of the rest of the group. Sebastian does not have to wonder if he would be welcome in such an arrangement; he knows that he would not.

As he renews his patrol, his thoughts turn to tomorrow. He will have to talk to them, find out where they plan to go. He will offer them all a place in Starkhaven, but he will not be swayed from his goal, even if he must return to his city alone. The thought that that will likely be the case weighs heavily on him. 

“Blessed Andraste, guide me through the days to come. Help me find a way forward from this tragedy that brings peace to my soul, and the souls of others. Help me to set aside my wrath so that I may better bring the Maker’s Light to the world. Guide me that I may find balance between worldly desires and my vows to the Maker, and to you.”

It’s quiet in the hours between late and early when he turns his gaze to the stars in another momentary reprieve from the watch. No one is awake save him, and Andraste. His tone changes, less a prayer than a confession now. “I do not seek the throne of Starkhaven for my own power, or for riches. I would ask that you help me to be a good leader to the people of the city, that they may all be blessed with the Light of the Maker. Grant me wisdom to lead them, to bring them prosperity and keep them safe. I’ve never been a leader,” he adds, softer, an aside that makes him smile to himself, though there is no joy in it. He had spoken often to Andraste as he sought to choose a path for himself, and this thought had always returned, that he was never meant to lead. Yet now, despite having made his decision, he finds himself preparing for that role that he had been content to abandon. “You, Andraste, you inspire the world. I seek only to help, to act as your servant. Please, show me how best to do this as a Prince.”

“Are you trying to convince Andraste, or yourself?” Sebastian whirls around at the interruption, embarrassed to be caught even if the voice is familiar. In the moonlight, Fenris is barely visible, a vague shape topped with white hair and marked by pale tattoos. He’s already awake and standing, and as he approaches Sebastian does his best to follow the outline. He is not bothered by the company, even if he hadn’t planned on discussing any of this with them so soon.

“Both, I suppose,” he admits. “I find it helps, talking aloud when I’m facing a problem.”

“There are those who might say that that’s all prayer is, that the conclusions you come to are the result of your own mind rather than divine guidance.”

Sebastian smiles. It’s more than he and Fenris have spoken all day, and he’s warmed by the familiarity of it, Fenris’ ability to turn an idea and look at it from another angle. “And yet, you come to the Chantry,” Sebastian points out. “I’ve seen you.”

Fenris folds his arms across his chest and looks away, off towards the south, to a city where there is no Chantry any longer. “I enjoyed the quiet. I do not pray out loud.”

“I will be sure to lower my voice next time so as not to disturb you,” Sebastian replies, letting a little amusement slip into his voice. After himself, Fenris had been the most outspoken about Anders’ fate, and he can’t help but hope, a little, that that means that Fenris will be the first to forgive him, once he has redeemed himself to Hawke. She is foremost to all of them, and without her forgiveness, he should not look for compassion or absolution from the others. 

“It’s my turn to take the watch. I was already awake.” Fenris nods towards the dying fire. “It’s not much warmer, but it’s something. Go on.”

Sebastian hesitates, and Fenris motions again without another word before turning away, already starting his patrol. They hadn’t discussed who would watch after Sebastian, and he’d been satisfied with the idea that he would stay awake all night. Nonetheless, he welcomes the opportunity for some rest, lying down near the fire and stoking it with some of what remains of Merrill’s gathered kindling. Canut flops down behind him with a sigh, and he settles in on the opposite side from Hawke and the others, on his own but close enough to watch them until he falls asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	3. Separate Ways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not everyone is prepared to go along when Sebastian tells the group of his plans.

The morning dawns damp and grey, and Sebastian wakes to a drop of water on his cheek. He curled into a ball during the night, facing the now dark remnants of yesterday’s fire. The others are also stirring, likely feeling the same smattering of rain that had woken him. He sits up, cold and stiff, and his mind allows him only a moment of blissful ignorance before memories of the day before flood his thoughts again. He sees Hawke standing and stretching, and lowers his gaze as soon as she looks at him, as if she’d be able to read the shame written on his face. Fenris offers Sebastian a hand, hauling him to his feet. It appears he’s woken not much later than the others, with Fenris being the only one who looks properly ready for the day, having likely taken the rest of the night’s watch. 

They eat standing around the fire pit, stretching and twisting to work out knots from sleeping on the cold ground, and fighting against the urge to sleep more. It’s the same food as the night before but with apples this time as well, Merrill producing them from her bag and handing out one each like a parent. 

“I thought I’d save them for breakfast, apples are better then,” she explains, giving Sebastian a weak smile as she sets his in his outstretched hand before turning quickly away. It’s a small gesture, but he holds onto it. Perhaps, as he comes to terms with what he has done, so will they. Perhaps all hope is not lost.

There is little to do in the way of breaking down the camp, and they make their way from the clearing with little discussion, setting off while the rain settles into a chilly drizzle that doesn’t fall so much as it hangs in the air around them. The silence is still heavy, but there is a comfort to it today, interrupted by Canut barking at birds, running off ahead onto to return a moment later without his prize. Sebastian hopes that he is not the only one who feels the change, as if they have all begun to adjust to this reality that they are facing. Fenris had helped Merrill with her pack as they’d left, and while Bethany still walks arm in arm with her sister, he sees her smile more, no longer watching Hawke with constant concern. Even Aveline takes a moment to chuckle at Canut when he comes bounding up to her, a stick between his massive jaws. Hawke’s friends have always seemed to Sebastian to be an adaptable group, and while it is naive to think that this is the same as what they have faced before, it seems that both time and distance are already working to lift their spirits. 

Fenris takes the lead again in the morning, setting them on a path that leads them around Sundermount rather than over. Nothing in this part of the Vimmark Mountains is extraordinary - they are far from both Chateau Haine and the Grey Warden prison - and this will only add half a day’s travel for them.

For him.

He has still not discussed his plan to return to Starkhaven with the others and has no idea where they might be thinking to go. The thought gnaws at him. He will not let the day pass without voicing his intentions, but for now he waits, though he scolds himself for being so selfish as to hold back this information in order to stay with them a little longer. To stay with Hawke. He is sure that making them aware of his path will have them all turning away, seeking out somewhere where he will not be, and he’s not prepared to part with all of them yet.

Their marching order shifts through the morning. Hawke is better, but still slow, and her sister stays by her side. Aveline takes the rear, keeping an eye on both of them, as well as Merril where she walks in front of the sisters. Hawke is protected on all sides, as she should be. 

Sebastian finds himself beside Fenris at the front. There is plenty else to concentrate on, but his mind is wandering back to the night before, to his prayer and its contents. What he’d given only a moment’s thought the night before reignites itself as a deeper concern today: that Fenris had overheard him, and if he did, how much he had heard, and what he might think.

“I think we’re about four days out from Starkhaven,” Fenris says, not turning to look at Sebastian but instead glancing up at the sky. “Given good weather and no interruptions, at least. What do you think?”

He fumbles for a moment, trying to find words. “The last time I went from Starkhaven to Kirkwall, it was by road, in a carriage with four guardsmen.”

Fenris makes an amused sound in the back of his throat. “It took four guards to get you to the Chantry?”

“It took two to get me into the carriage, at least. I suppose they worked in shifts. I slept most of the way there, though they did have to stop along the way so I could open the carriage door to be sick. I woke up for the last time just outside Kirkwall with a pounding head.” More laughter from Fenris, and Sebastian is glad to hear it. There will be little of that in the days to come, he fears. There has been little enough so far. “But to answer your question, you can get there over a day if you’ve a fast horse and stay on the roads. Neither of which apply here.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Fenris, can I ask you, what made you decide that we should head to Starkhaven?”

“You did,” he replies, simply, though he keeps his voice low enough for them to not be overheard. Varric is walking behind them, whistling softly to himself, some tune that Sebastian thinks he recognizes from the Hanged Man. “Last night. You plan to retake the throne. You will need help, and I, at least, will need somewhere safe to stay.”

“I did not intend for anyone to hear.” Sebastian is both grateful and concerned by this turn of events. He wants to keep them with him, to help them rebuild and to grant them protection and safety, but he can not ask his friends to engage in another coup so soon after losing their home.

Fenris hums in reply. “You can’t do it alone. Were you going to try?”

He doesn’t want to admit he’s not thought that far ahead yet. Just as vengeance had consumed him at the death of his family and the loss of Elthina, he sees now that the decision to retake the throne was also driven by heightened, rash emotion. Maker, will he never learn to slow down and let the water move around him, instead of being carried away?

“It is a rare opportunity, to install a leader in a city and play a part in the accession of the man who will help the people there. I am willing to help since it’s you who will be taking the throne.”

The statement humbles Sebastian, and it takes him a moment to be able to speak again. “And you would support me in this? A Chantry Brother as Prince of Starkhaven?”

“I would,” Fenris replies. “There is no need to set aside one’s faith in order to be a good leader to the people, as long as it does not deny others their freedom. On the contrary, the faith that you possess could allow you to lead with a rare sort of fairness.” Fenris’ words are carefully weighed and chosen. Sebastian knows some of what he’s been through, and can only imagine that that’s where his caution comes from. For his own part, the words ring dissonant and come to him as something to strive towards rather than something he has already shown that he can do. The authority he demonstrated in Kirkwall should serve as a warning rather than an example.   


“All of us are equal in the eyes of the Maker.” It’s a practiced line to be sure, rolling easily off his tongue, but that doesn’t mean that he believes it any less. If this plan becomes a reality and he finds himself on the throne, it will be that much more important that he upholds and embodies that ideal.    


“Easy to say. Harder to believe, and even more difficult to enact as policy without becoming like the Qunari. But if anyone can balance your… accepting nature as a Chantry Brother with the power of a Prince, I think it would be you, Sebastian.”

Again he finds himself moved to silence by Fenris’ belief in him, and not for entirely positive reasons. To know that at least one of them feels that way gives him hope, and the confidence to share his plans with the others, and yet at the same time he is reminded of the way that he had displayed this Prince-like power the day before, by wielding the ultimatum that led to Anders’ death at Hawke’s hands. He had not been so accepting then, when he had forced her to make such an impossible choice. Fenris may mean it well, but Sebastian can not bring himself to be proud of that, and if he is to have this responsibility, he resolves to do better with it.

“It is a statement that is far too easy to forget when it is most important to remember it,” he replies, sighing and looking away, grateful when Fenris does not press the matter. 

At midday they are forced to stop when the skies open up on them, the drizzle turning to cold, fat rain that almost hurts when it hits, and drums on armor and shield alike. They seek refuge in a shallow cave, jostling as they rush to get beneath the stony overhang. It’s not a lot of protection, but there is no wind, so the rain comes straight down, heavy drops in such a downpour that it’s difficult to see more than a few feet away. They crowd in to the back of the cave and this time it’s Merrill who works her magic, setting up a shimmering film between them and the water. 

“Thank you, Merrill,” Sebastian says, taking in the barrier with curiosity. “I’ve never had the opportunity to see one outside of when we’re fighting. It’s beautiful.”

“Do you think so? Oh, thank you, Sebastian!” She’s beaming, and it lifts another stone from his chest. “I’ve tried to do one while I walk, to keep the rain off, but then I get distracted and still wind up all wet, so this is just easier.”

Sebastian has never met anyone like Merrill, and he’s sure somehow that she is unique even among her own people. She spoke freely with him about the Dalish and their beliefs, clearing up misconceptions and listening to him with more patience than he’d seen on some Chantry Sisters when they’d tried to do the same with an elf. Her sweet and charitable nature extended to everyone around her, so much so that he’d found himself forgetting the sort of magic she was capable of. Merrill is far from weak or helpless, but she fails completely to match the image of a dangerous blood mage that the Chantry painted for him. He smiles down at her, glad that she’s come with them this far, hoping that she’ll want to continue the journey afterwards.

There is no good time for him to tell them. He’s been thinking about it all morning, before he spoke with Fenris as well as after. In his mind he’s played it out over and over, imagining every scenario from the pleasant daydream of their grateful acceptance to the more likely ending where he’s standing on his own in the mountains. Or in this case, in a cave that smells of moss and dead leaves. Then again, perhaps it would be better if he was the one to leave. 

Regardless, there is no sense in continuing to weigh options, not when he hasn’t asked the question yet.

“I have something I’d like to say,” he starts, slowly. “While we’re stopped. If I may.”

That gets everyone’s attention. Sebastian has led the Chant in the Kirkwall Chantry many times, stood before congregations that filled the massive hall, all of them watching him. It is nothing compared to the six sets of eyes that fix on him now. Only Fenris has any idea, and his expression is as unreadable as always. The rest look calm, expectant; better than yesterday, though still with some lingering wariness. It’s difficult to look at each of them and meet narrowed eyes, see pursed lips, but he does in an effort to communicate that the offer he is making is for all of them.   


“I am in no position to ask anything of any of you, I know.” He rubs at the back of his neck, always a nervous tell, but he can’t be bothered trying to be overconfident now. “I have a claim to the throne of Starkhaven. I will gladly travel with you all for as long as you’ll allow me, but that is my destination. I plan to retake the throne there, and when I do, please know that all of you will always be welcome within my city. You lost your homes, and I would give you a new one, if you will have it. I would be honored and humbled if you would come with me and help me, but I understand if you have other plans.”

And there it is. 

With the walls of the cave and Merrill’s barrier, Sebastian feels as if his speech is trapped in the air around them, pressing in on them and demanding they make a choice. It’s not what he intended, and it’s possible that he’s imagining it, and the only one who feels the weight of it is him. The downpour is audible, and it roars in his ears as no one says a word.

“I’ll go with you, Sebastian.” It’s rare that Fenris is the first to speak, rarer still for him to agree to something so quickly. Until he spoke, Sebastian had anticipated that he might change his mind, and relief washes over him as the silence is broken. 

He nods. “Thank you, Fenris. I’ve not forgotten the offer I made to you, about training Starkhaven’s forces.”

At that, Fenris smiles. “Neither have I.”

“Ooh, Sebastian, what’s the alienage like in Starkhaven?” Merrill looks at him with shining eyes and careful optimism. 

“Well,” he chuckles, “I’ve not been back to the city in more than fifteen years, but when I was there, it was nice. Clean, open, larger than the one in Kirkwall. And the tree, the, umm--”

“Vhenadahl,” she fills in, and he gestures gratefully.

“Yes, that. It was large and healthy, well-cared for. But Merrill, when I’m Prince again, you won’t have to stay there if you don’t want to. You could live at the Keep with me.”

He didn’t think it was possible for her eyes to get bigger, and yet they do. She looks as if she might leap at him to hug him, and he smiles at the thought. “Really? Are there other elves in the Keep?”

“There’ll be at least one,” Fenris drawls from behind her, and she turns, offering him the same grin she’d given Sebastian.

“Well then, I’m going too. I want to see more cities, I think. Doesn’t seem fair that Kirkwall is my only example. Sorry,” she rushes to add, glancing at Varric as if the suggestion of Kirkwall’s inferiority as a starting point might be offensive. “But it wasn’t always a very nice example.”

Until now, Aveline has watched, leaning against the side of the cave, frowning. Her disapproval has not gone beneath Sebastian’s notice, but he’d hoped that Fenris’ acceptance might change her mind.

“You realize you’re offering homes and jobs to people when you haven’t even gotten your throne yet, right?” She doesn’t move from here she’s standing with her arms folded over her chest, looking from Sebastian to Merrill and back. “You don’t even know if this will be possible. When you spoke of it before, you said you’d need an army, which you don’t have.” A pause, and when she speaks again her voice is darker. “When you spoke of it before, you also said that you were loyal to Kirkwall.” 

Sebastian sighs. He remembers quite well that conversation with her, and had had no doubt that she would as well. “I did say that, and it remains true, but I have the opportunity to do this now. I can do more good for Kirkwall from the throne in Starkhaven than I ever could by staying in the city.”

“I think this is a bad idea.” Aveline shakes her head, almost struggling to pull her gaze from Sebastian to look at the others. Her voice is grave, the sort of tone she’d used when Hawke was suggesting something that she wouldn’t be able to protect her from, and she stands perfectly straight, not so much as shifting her weight. “I don’t think we should go. It’s been two days, things will have calmed down. I think we should go back to Kirkwall and start cleaning up the mess.”

Aveline has a point and he knows it, and as he looks around, he can see he’s not alone in that. Bethany is watching her sister, waiting to see what Hawke decides, and Varric doesn’t look as if he’s decided anything yet. Indeed, he’s been uncharacteristically quiet since they left Kirkwall, the combination of abandoning Kirkwall and Hawke’s current condition seeming to leave him serious and subdued. 

Fenris clears his throat, and again Sebastian is grateful to have him on his side in this. “It’s not a good idea for us to split up, Aveline. And Kirkwall will still be there when--”

“Will Donnic?” 

Everyone goes quiet at that. Sebastian looks down at his hands, doesn’t have to lift his gaze to know how she’s looking at each of them in turn. They tried to find him, but the guard had been spread out over the city, and in the end they agreed to depart without him. Aveline hadn’t spoken of it again, but Sebastian doesn’t doubt that it is one more thing he is to be blamed for.

“Of course he will be, Aveline. Your guardsmen are well-trained, and nobody’s better than Donnic.” Varric’s confidence is heartening, and Sebastian wants to believe him. More than that, he wants Aveline to believe him.

“You’ll understand if I want to see it for myself, Varric, and as soon as possible,” she replies, pushing off the cave wall to pace between Sebastian and the rest of the group.

“Of course,” Varric answers. “We all do, but--”

“Is it safer in Starkhaven than it would be in Kirkwall?” Merrill’s earlier confidence appears to have disappeared in the face of Aveline’s resistance.

Sebastian sees his plans for reconciliation and rule crumbling before they’ve even crossed the Vimmark Mountains. Their voices rise as they try to speak over each other: Varric trying to calm them, Aveline’s noble concern for her husband and home, Merrill’s growing fears and Fenris trying to persuade her that she will be safe in Starkhaven. Canut joins in, hopping and barking, only adding to the din.

"And you think you'll be safer in Starkhaven? They killed his entire family. If he goes back and becomes a target, how close to that you want to be?"

Sebastian had thought to wait them out, but this draws him into the argument as well. "I know Starkhaven--"

"You haven't been there in fifteen years!"

"It's not on fire with a Chantry reduced to rubble and a full-scale war inside its walls!" As soon as he says it, he wishes he could take it back. Aveline’s eyes go wide, and he sees Hawke flinch out of the corner of his eye. No one has forgotten, but saying it so plainly serves only to remind them, and Sebastian as well. For all that he has set his course, Kirkwall was still his home for many years, and he aches to think of the fate of the city. It is a poorly made argument for them to join him, and he regrets it. 

"That is exactly why Kirkwall needs us!” Aveline fires back. “Donnic is still there. I won't leave him, and I won't leave the city. You're all far enough away now, and you know where you're headed, so I'll take my leave."

"Aveline--" Merrill starts.

"We are going to Starkhaven." Hawke’s voice cuts through the argument, their words falling dead to the floor of the cave. It's the most she's spoken since they left the city, perhaps since the end of the fight at the Gallows, Sebastian can't be sure. She's not looking at any of them, just staring down at the ground, but even so, he can see that she is resolute in her decision, her jaw set and her shoulders low as she nods, almost to herself more than to those watching her. “I trust Sebastian on this.”

Aveline sighs, taking a step away from the group. “I don’t, Hawke.” Her eyes land on Sebastian, as if to make sure he hears it. “I can’t go with you.”

Hawke lifts her eyes to look at her friend. “Not even as far as the city?” She asks as if it’s a long shot, which Sebastian suspects it is, and it’s confirmed when Aveline shakes her head slowly.

“We both know I can’t leave him, and I can’t leave Kirkwall.” She shrugs. “I’ve been gone too long already.”

She looks at Hawke with fondness, lines at the corner of her eyes when she comes closer to a real smile than Sebastian thinks he’s seen since they left Kirkwall, but there’s sadness in it as well. Hawke’s expression matches Aveline’s, years of arguments and cooperation and Blight-forged friendship passing wordlessly between them; it’s an entire conversation told in the furrowing of eyebrows and the way that Hawke’s smile fades first.

"I understand, Aveline.” Hawke’s gaze drops at the ground and she nods, unable to keep looking at Aveline’s disappointment. “And I wish you the best of luck. I'll miss you. I--"

"Me too, Hawke." Aveline steps forward and pulls Hawke into a hug that it takes her a moment to reciprocate. There's a softness in her voice that Sebastian has never heard before. It makes him want to turn away, as if this is something he shouldn't be allowed to see. A quick glance around the group tells him that he is not alone in the sentiment.

"If you ever need anything, you let me know, right?" Aveline says, so low that it’s not clear if anyone else is supposed to hear it

Hawke nods, and it's all Sebastian can do to keep from answering for her. Hawke needs Aveline now, he knows it, knows that Aveline must also know it. She's a smart woman, but she has other things to think of. Donnic is alone and likely in danger, and perhaps the only person that she cares about more than Hawke. Leaving now will leave Hawke with people who will protect her, something that Donnic and all of Kirkwall are lacking, but which both he and the city have in Aveline.

“That goes for the rest of you as well,” Aveline continues, rubbing at the end of her nose as she slips her arms from around Hawke’s rounded shoulders. “Well, not you.” She gives Sebastian another pointed glance. “But if the rest of you ever need anything, you know where I’ll be. If you want to go back with me now, you can.” Her gaze moves. “Varric?”

Sebastian turns to look only to see Varric shaking his head. “Not yet. I’m not a soldier, I’m not a guard. I can’t help you. I’ll come back when this shit blows over, but for now, I go where Hawke goes.” The lines at the corners of his eyes deepen as his expression softens, and the two share an almost imperceptible nod of understanding. Hawke needs Varric more than Kirkwall does, even if the city is his home. 

“Aveline.” Merrill’s eyes shine even in the gloom of the cave. For a moment everyone stills, waiting for a decision to be made, but then Merrill loops her arm through Hawke’s and gives a little shake of her head. Aveline purses her lips and nods. 

"You take care of her, Prince. I'll find out if you don't." She's pointing at him, actually pointing, and he stares back at her, startled. The momentary uncertainty shown when she’d said goodbye to Hawke is gone now, her shoulders squared and her brow furrowed, every bit the soldier that he has come to respect and admire.

"Of course, Guard Captain. And if there's anything that Starkhaven can offer Kirkwall once I'm--"

"Save it." She's already turning away, not offering a goodbye to any of the rest of them. Perhaps that's just her way, but somehow Sebastian can't help but feel surprised at her abruptness. She shoulders through Merrill’s barrier without stopping, hefting her shield up over her head to keep the rain off. They all stand still long enough to watch her distorted figure disappear around a bend in the path, and even after, as if they think she might change her mind and return.

"Kirkwall needs good people, too," Varric mutters, and Sebastian thinks he understands him. Kirkwall is all that Varric's ever known. He is concerned about his home, and there is no shame in that. With the decision made, Sebastian finds that he is concerned as well, his worry now divided between two homes - he fears what may become of Kirkwall, and he can not ignore his own misgivings about what he will find in Starkhaven, and what will happen there as well, whether he regains his throne or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)
> 
> The screencap in this chapter was provided by [sweetonsebastian on tumblr](https://sweetonsebastian.tumblr.com) and originally posted [here](https://sweetonsebastian.tumblr.com/post/188655466020/how-i-imagine-sebastian-and-fenriss-chat-in).


	4. Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those who followed Sebastian to Starkhaven spend the night at an inn. For Hawke, the loss of momentum means letting what happened in Kirkwall catch up to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like Anders. I think he's a fascinating character and Padi was in a friendmance with him in the game, and it was great until it wasn't. Their relationship in this story is a reflection of that, not a reflection of how I feel about the character in general.

Starkhaven begins to rise in the distance long before they reach the city. Two days of rain gave way to sun as they crossed the plains, and at the horizon, something bright winked at them, or it did to those who knew where to look. Sebastian and Fenris exchanged a glance, altering their course to set them on a straight line for the city. Time and distance continued to ease the group’s unrest as they traveled, though Aveline’s departure still hangs heavy and memories of her were common conversation around the fire in the evening. Merrill was the first to ask a question about Starkhaven, and then only this morning, though Sebastian thought that the others seemed interested in his answer. Hawke, however, remains quiet and withdrawn, and Sebastian has seen others casting worried glances at her.

On the far bank of the Minanter, everyone but Sebastian is eating or resting but he is pacing, too full of nervous energy to sit and take a meal. He tears the bread in his hands into smaller and smaller pieces, none of it going into his mouth.

“If you weren’t going to eat it, Sebastian, we could have saved it.” Merrill is watching him with disappointment in her eyes, and he looks from her to the crumbs and bits in his hands and scattered around his feet. “I suppose some birds will have a lovely time with that later,” she sighs.

This is a moment that he has thought about often over the last few days, formed from a fantasy so distant that he had needed to search his soul to find it and bring it back to the light of day, to make it feel real. How many nights had he lain awake in those first months of his exile, imagining his triumphant return to the city, strutting across the bridge and up to the gates of the Keep, demanding what was still rightly his? Was he not still a Vael, was this not still his home? He gave himself to the Chantry whole-heartedly, but such dark thoughts did not disappear over a day. The death of his family had rekindled the idea, this time as a struggle within him. In the end, thanks in part to Hawke and the others, his life in Kirkwall won out, but that life came to an abrupt end with the destruction of the Chantry.

Time and Elthina's patient guidance dampened his desire, however, and Kirkwall became his home in Starkhaven's stead, but now he allows himself to feel it, not as a young man returning to continue his rebellion, but as the last true heir of his family, returning to restore their place on the throne, and to show his companions somewhere they can perhaps also find a home. The sight of the Starkhaven before him now, however, crystallizes the uncertain force that drove him here: This was the right choice. He lets his eyes follow the curve of the walls, carved with deep shadows and painted gold by the late-afternoon sun. He wants to believe that he can still pick out rooftops of old haunts, trace streets in his mind. More than once he’d found his way home from the city’s lowest ring while blind drunk, so there’s no reason to believe he can’t make it there now. The sound of the river, the sight of the Keep, all of it is so familiar to him.

“Your city is beautiful, Sebastian.” Merrill is the first to finish eating, brushing her hands off on her thighs as she stands then dips to collect her staff. “Is there really an alienage in there?”

He nods. “You can’t see it clearly from here, but it’s there, on the lowest level, to the east of the bridge.” He leans in close to her and points where she should be looking, past the farmland on the southern banks of the Minanter and towards the city proper. She pops up onto her toes and lifts her chin, and though he wouldn’t be surprised to know that she can see farther than he can, he still doubts that she can make out the buildings, or their ceremonial tree from their vantage point.

“Will we be able to go there tomorrow?” She asks, turning to look up at him as she settles back on her heels. “We are going into the city tonight, aren’t we? We can’t sleep out here when it’s that close.”

She’s right, and he knows it, and as he looks around at the others, he sees that they’re watching the pair of them, waiting for his answer. He’s not used to the role of leader in their party, but Hawke put her trust in him, and so he will do the best he can to guide them, at least for now.

“We’re going to Starkhaven tonight,” he replies. “And when we wake up in the morning, it will be in soft beds in the Keep. I am not waiting a minute more than I must to re-take my family’s home.”

This fails to elicit the reaction he had anticipated, his companions instead shuffling uneasily and glancing at one another in the fading light. Even Fenris looks at him with furrowed brows, and Hawke’s jaw stills where she’s stopped chewing. She’s not looking up at him--he’s barely seen her eyes since they left the mountains--but he can tell she’s listening. They all are.

“I don’t suppose we could sleep somewhere else in Starkhaven tonight, and take the Keep in the morning?” Merrill watches him with her unmatchable wide-eyed wisdom, the pad of her thumb worrying at the nail on her other hand.

“We could all do with a proper night’s sleep, Sebastian,” Bethany adds, a pointed look in her sister’s direction. “A real bed, hot food, a bath.” 

Hawke stands as if she knows she’s the focus at the moment, swaying on her feet until Bethany sets a hand at the small of her back. She hasn’t spoken that he’s heard, since Aveline left them days ago, and even now she appears to wait to see what the others decide.

Sebastian finds himself in a position similar to the one Hawke held in Kirkwall, with the others looking to him for guidance and leadership. He must consider options which will be the best for all of them, not simply what he wants to do for himself. Asking this group to storm a guarded castle in the dark of night would get them all killed. No matter how much the thought of waiting frustrates him, he can’t request that of them. They are all here by their own will, and he can not in good faith ask them to take on such a fight. They have no tie to the city the way that he does, no fire in their blood that burns as he does when he turns and looks at the Keep where it rises above the city. They still burn for Kirkwall, and while Sebastian does as well, it doesn’t compare to the sight before him now. He cannot expect them to be swayed by the sight of Starkhaven’s walls in the same way that he is. 

He nods, looking away as he runs a hand through his hair. He doesn’t need to consider more to know that there is sound logic in what they’re saying. Patience is a virtue that he has yet to fully master, but that he would do well to avail himself of now, for all their sakes. “All right. There is-- there  _ was  _ an inn in the lowest circle where we could stay. It’s near the gates to the city, but we need to hurry. I recall they used to close the gates shortly after nightfall, and they were not amenable to letting visitors in without thorough explanations.”

A palpable wave of relief moves over them, with even Hawke’s shoulders relaxing. Sebastian wishes that he could feel the same, but as they approach the southern entrance to the city, his eyes return again and again to the Keep as it beckons him. Still, it’s a worthy delay. A night in the city will not be a night wasted, as they will only have one chance, especially without the army he had wished for.

They leave the hillside to make their way down to the road leading to the city. It cuts a muddy path through farmlands that stretch out away from Starkhaven, with orchards on one side and tall, swaying fields of corn on the other, or lower expanses of grains and grasses. Pale wooden houses peer back at them over the crops, or from the ends of the narrow lanes that lead to their doors. The people they see as they pass make note of them, but seem otherwise uninterested, the day’s work not yet finished for them. It’s all larger and more prosperous than Sebastian remembers from his youth, and it lightens his heart to see the city doing well, even with a puppet ruler in the Keep.

At the start of the bridge over the Minanter that leads to the city’s main gate, Sebastian drops to one knee, pausing to pull his cloak out of his pack, unrolling it and sweeping it over his shoulders. He does his best to arrange it to cover his armor as they walk up the bridge, drawing the hood down to hide his eyes. Torches glow and flicker on either side. They are lit to welcome the day’s last visitors, but will be extinguished when the gates are closed.

“Bethany,” Sebastian starts, keeping his tone light, “can you and Varric speak to the guards if needed?” 

She looks back at him over her shoulder, letting go of her sister’s arm to fall in step with him instead. Varric and Fenris are at the front, with Merrill and Hawke behind them. “You’re very secretive all of a sudden,” she replies, her tone light and teasing, in a whisper still loud enough for the others to hear. 

He sighs. He hadn’t wanted to explain, but there will be no getting around this without some sort of explanation. “I don’t want them to see me. I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed, Bethany, but my eyes are a rather distinct shade of blue.”

Her blush is nearly audible in the failing light, a quick draw of breath where she walks at his side. She ducks her head and looks away from him, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear as she turns. Her reaction is welcome, and he smiles, glancing at her. It gives him hope to see that what little charm he still possesses works on her. He would like to think that they are friends, but Bethany is Hawke’s sister before all else. If Bethany can find it in her to joke with him and be affected by him, perhaps the others will come around as well.

Sebastian chuckles, continuing. “It’s something a lot of the men in my family have. My father had it, my oldest brother as well. If we’re to have any chance of surprising them tomorrow, I’d like to keep myself out of sight of anyone who might think to run to the Keep and tell them.”

A wagon stands at the gates before them, the driver chatting idly with the guards, and Bethany steps to the front of the group, Varric at her side. Fenris and Merrill would be poor choices to try to talk to the guards, each for their own reasons, and Hawke is still withdrawn and quiet. That fact worries Sebastian more than any questions the guards might pose, and he keeps an eye on her as they approach the entrance to the city. 

As it turns out, most of his fears are unfounded. Varric is well-known enough in Starkhaven, at least by name, to get them all inside without more than a second glance. Bethany smiles brightly at the guard, keeping his attention on her rather than her sister, and Sebastian is ignored, a slight that leaves Bethany looking at him with raised brows and an amused expression, but also one that he notes to himself, to take up later with the guards. As relieved as he is to get inside the city without their notice, he wants to make sure that the watches are adequate to protect the city, as well as him and his friends within it. He must remind himself that the deaths of his family are long past; the city can not remain on high alert forever, especially not when the nobility knows that the murderers are no threat to themselves or their installed ruler.

The thought leaves him shaking his head as they slip into the dwindling crowds on the streets. He’s been in Starkhaven all of two minutes and he’s already deciding policies to look over. It’s hubris, and while he hopes that it will only be a short time until his fate is decided, he must still warn himself against it.

The streets are wide and paved with even stones on the level where they’ve arrived, but they quickly narrow as the group make their way down into the lower parts of Starkhaven. Lamps set in glass and iron holders on the edge of the road give way to small but warmly lit windows, not unwelcoming, even if it is clear that there is less money in this part of the city. The buildings are of rough stone and brick, more modest in size and decoration than the mansions closer to the Keep, and they are all unique, a patchwork of sizes and colors and states of repair.

Fenris walks with head held high at the back of the group, but with his hood pulled up and his two-hander sheathed on his back, while Varric is in front with Bethany beside him. Sebastian lingers also near the back of the group, listening for anyone who would come at them from behind, the four of them grouped around Merrill and Hawke.

“Hey gorgeous, why don’t you ditch the dwarf and come get warm in here with us?” The voice comes from a dark alley they’ve just passed, a man stepping out of the shadows to cut Sebastian off from the rest of the group. His eyes cut to the side, not wanting to look away from the others, but to confirm that the man isn’t alone. Three more wait in the alley, and he sees the spark of magic from one of them. Perhaps news of what happened in Kirkwall has spread, and led other apostates to thinking they can act rashly.

Merrill coos, apparently taking the compliment to heart, but she’s cut off by a growl and the scrape of a sword being unsheathed as Fenris turns back the way they came from. The attackers in the alley hear the sound as well; they try to use what little surprise is left to their advantage, rushing forward to the end of the alley only to be stopped by Sebastian. The quarters are too tight for him to fire his bow, but it’s made from strong wood, enough to withstand damage as he swings it up under the jaw of a would-be attacker, sending him sprawling back on top of his allies.

A wisp of a woman launches herself at Sebastian from the darkness of the alleyway, having been too far back to be hit when Sebastian knocked the first attacker to the pavement. She has one dagger in each hand, but doesn’t get close enough to use them. Bethany’s staff crackles when she strikes the woman across the middle, all but folding her in half before dropping her to the street. She’s dazed, surrounded by enemies and too slow to avoid the butt end of the staff when Bethany swings it up under her chin. The woman falls bonelessly and stays down, and Sebastian sees Bethany glance around nervously, a faint glow from her hands where she grips her staff.

The mage among the muggers has scrambled out from under his compatriot, but as he struggles to his feet he gasps, staggering backwards, his staff bouncing on the pavement where he drops it when he tries to use it for balance. Fenris is bearing down on him with no sign of mercy in his eyes. The mage’s glow of magic is weak compared to the flare of Fenris’ tattoos, and Sebastian looks away when he hears the wet squelch of a life extinguished.

The mountain of a man who’d started this fight falls backwards, and Sebastian drops and rolls out of the way just in time to keep from being trapped under him as he lands on the cobblestones, no effort at all made to soften his fall. There’s a dagger where one of his eyes used to be, and as the other three assailants flee up the alley, Sebastian’s attention turns to where the rest of the group is already looking: Hawke, still holding her other dagger, poised to strike. She looks like herself again for the first time since they left Kirkwall but Sebastian is sorry to see it in these circumstances. It should not take violence and the sticky smell of blood to coax her back from wherever she’s retreated inside her mind.

Hawke steps over the man, planting one foot on his massive chest to brace herself as she tugs the dagger out of his head. She looks at it for a moment, then wipes the blood off on the leg of her pants with distracted motions before slipping the dagger into its sheath, as if she’s forgotten the cloth on her quiver that she otherwise uses when she needs to clean her weapons. Sebastian watches the motion with a frown, but says nothing. 

“Quite the welcome wagon, Choir Boy. I don’t remember a greeting like that from the last time I was in this part of the Marches.” Varric sets Bianca in her holder on his back, but even in the low light, Sebastian can see that he’s watching Hawke with concern. “You okay Hawke?”

She nods, but Varric isn’t looking. “I’m all right. Well, my pride is wounded, I suppose. I jumped because I thought he  _ wasn’t _ talking to me,” she quips, but the momentary flare of adrenaline in her features and posture is already fading, leaving her looking more weary than before the fight. “That’s the last time I defend Fenris’ honor, then.”

Fenris grunts in answer, but there’s no real annoyance in it.

“Hey, they could’ve been talking about me,” Varric continues as they head off up the street, leaving the body for the authorities to find later. “I’m gorgeous, too.”

“I don’t know, Varric,” Merrill replies, “they did say to ditch the dwarf, and you’re the only dwarf with us.”

They laugh, and the mood lightens quickly, and for a moment they are only a group of friends walking together in the city. It could almost be any one of many nights in Kirkwall, but for Bethany’s arm around Hawke’s waist to keep her upright.

They reach the inn without further incident, shaking off the first drops of rain that come as they bundle in through the door. Varric takes the lead again, negotiating for rooms for the night before returning to where the rest of them are standing.

Sebastian scans the mostly empty main room, trying to look for anything that might be a problem for them while they stay the night. Despite the earlier altercation, Starkhaven is a calm city for the most part, but with two elves and one bloodied party member, they might appear to be easy prey for anyone looking to make quick coin by robbing them. He also tries to see if there are any familiar faces, but the low light of candles and the fireplace leaves too many shadows and not enough opportunities to distinguish the patrons. He can only hope that he is as difficult to identify.

“Not the best options for beds, but I took what they had left,” Varric sighs. “There’s three up the stairs, end of the hall.” He hands on key to Fenris. “Barkeep wanted you and Daisy to sleep in the kitchen, but I managed to convince him that that wasn’t in his best interest.”

Fenris glares over Varric and snarls, even though the barkeep is unaware, his back to them for the moment as he pours ale and chats with customers. There are too few patrons for all the rooms to be occupied; any reason to put the elves in the kitchen has to do with thinking them good enough to take coin from, but not good enough for a bed. It bothers Sebastian, but he’s not interested in making another scene. Whatever Varric did or said, it’s worked well enough to get them equal lodging for the night.

Merrill, on the other hand, brightens at the suggestion. “Oh, I bet it’s nice and warm there, and you get breakfast first of everyone, being so close to the food.”

“Daisy--” Varric gives up, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Anyway, you two have a room to share, so play nice. Bethany, you and Angel have a room along with the mabari, who also cost extra.” He looks down at Canut, who lowers his shoulders and wags his tail as if to thank Varric for putting in the effort. “And then it’s me and Choir Boy. First, though: Food. I asked him to put together whatever they’ve got for us that’s still hot.”

He trails off as his eyes move to Hawke, who yawns so that the sound of her jaw cracking is audible even over the conversations of the other patrons. She moves away from them, plucking the key from Bethany’s hand and setting off up the stairs without a word.

“I’ll go with her,” Sebastian offers, maybe a little too quickly. “The rest of you can sit and relax. We all deserve it.”

“I don’t mind, I can stay with her,” Bethany offers.

“Look, I don’t drink, I don’t play cards, but I can do this. Just have them send plates up for us, all right? I’ll look after her.” He’s not sure who needs to hear it the most, as he looks from Bethany to Merrill to Varric in turn. “You’ll all probably have more fun without me, anyway.”

They relent, stepping back to let him pass without confirming or denying his words, but as the others turn away to go to find a table for themselves, Bethany sets a hand on Sebastian’s arm to stop him.

“She needs to rest,” she says, giving him a pointed look. 

Sebastian nods, understanding. “Of course. I just don’t want to leave her on her own.”

A brightness flickers over Bethany’s eyes. Perhaps she thought that she was the only one who knew that Hawke still isn’t herself, but Sebastian can’t see how the others could fail to notice. It’s gone as soon as it appears, and after a moment Bethany nods. “Come get us if you need anything, either of you.”

Sebastian nods again, and this time Bethany offers a weak smile then walks away, leaving him standing on his own at the base of the stairs. Varric kept the key to the room they’re meant to share, so he can’t stop to leave his things before going to find Hawke. 

There are seven rooms at the top of the narrow staircase, three on each side of the hallway and one at the end. From the first door on the right he hears enthusiastic moaning, enough to leave him hurrying past. The door to one of the other rooms stands open, golden light spilling out into the hall. This must be where Hawke went. 

He knocks, pulling the door open gently as he does so. “May I come in?” He says, only just peeking in through the opening in an attempt to avoid seeing anything he shouldn’t.

He finds Hawke standing in front of the mirror by the wash basin. Her cloak is laid over the end of the bed, but otherwise she’s still dressed. It looks as if she started to take her hair down--it’s in some elaborate Fereldan braided construction to keep it out of the way--but then stopped. One hand rests on the edge of the basin located in the opposite corner from the door, so he sees her not quite from the side, but from a bit behind.

The other is touching the mirror, but as he moves into the room, she pulls her hand away and sets it on her face instead, tracing the edge of her scar with her fingertips, following it with her eyes on her reflection.

She hasn’t seen it until now, he realizes, and his chest tightens at the thought. The battle, their escape from the city, their time in the mountains; she must have known that she’s wounded, but it’s not the same, trying to understand by touch, especially when it’s been packed with a poultice for much of the time. The mind can conjure up an image, and one’s mind is often kinder than reality but there’s been no opportunity for her to see.

Her lower lip twitches and she catches it between her teeth, biting hard until her jaw trembles. She brings her hand up to cover the scar, her right cheek and eye hidden so that one could think there’s nothing unusual there. When she lowers her hand again, her green eyes shine with tears.

“Hawke.” It’s wrong to continue invading her privacy, but it’s more wrong that she should feel alone. 

He hopes that his presence can offer some reassurance, but instead it appears to break something inside her. Her head falls forward as she cries, one hand pressed flat to the mirror, nails clicking against the glass when she balls her hand into a fist.

He’s at her side just in time to catch her, wrapping his hand around her wrist to keep her from punching the mirror. The strength in her arm is a surprise only after having watched her since they left Kirkwall; while she rallied for the fight by the alley, but it wasn’t even enough to sustain her to the tavern. It’s a strength he knows she has, but this is not how he would see it reappear, driven by anger or grief, whatever she may feel when she looks at her reflection. She’ll hurt herself more than anything else doing it, and he can’t allow that, not when he has the opportunity to stop her.

She twists in his grip, fighting against him but only weakly. He’s careful not to hold too tight, but she fails to wrench her wrist from his grip, instead falling against him, sobbing against his chest. Her free hand is balled into a fist, landing useless blows to his shoulder, and he lets her. She’s not striking out to hit him, he knows. He’s just the closest thing. 

One step at a time, he guides her to the bed, to sit. Her fist has stopped, balled in his coat now, and when he lets go of her other wrist she sets that hand lightly on his chest as well. With one arm around her shoulders he settles both of them onto the shallow mattress, letting her rest against him. 

He feels lost, unsure what words or actions to offer that might be of any comfort to her. He’d had some experience with wounds in the Chantry, helping the healers with bandages, reading to those who couldn’t do it themselves, being a soothing hand or voice in time of need. None of those patients were Hawke, and everything feels inadequate, too much about him. Can he tell her that she is still beautiful without revealing what he carries in his heart? Would she be helped to hear that her spirit is undamaged, that she shines as brightly as ever in his eyes?

It is no delicate thing she does, this purging of the pain and darkness inside her. Her teeth are bared in a snarl, deep lines etched in splotchy skin on her face. She squeezes her eyes closed only to open them again, to stare past him. Through it all, she is quiet, no wailing or cry of any kind as tears roll down her cheeks. There come only quick, hiccuped breaths and something like a growl, a groan when she sucks in air, and words that might be names: Anders, Mother. Sebastian searches his memory to recall that her brother’s name was Carver, and it chills him to realize how long this hurt has lain unsoothed inside her, as if their leaving Kirkwall stirred her soul like some deep lake.

It’s some time later when she finally straightens, putting distance between them and taking her hands away, wiping at her eyes. Sebastian curls his fingers, gently resting his knuckles against her cheek, and brushes a tear away where it’s stolen down her face and tracked the edge of her scar. Hawke lifts her eyes to look at him, holding his gaze, and he knows that he has no words that could banish the pain he sees in her eyes. This is so much deeper than just the scar.

“I didn’t block him.” Her voice creaks, and she runs her fingers along the underside of her wound, brushing away Sebastian’s touch. “The Templar, I-- Varric saved my life, he hit him with a bolt in the throat, but I remember.” She wraps her arms around her body and lowers her eyes, watching her foot where she toes at a mark on the floor. “I thought it was just as well. It might as well happen that way. Why not then and there? Why not let it happen, let it end?” She shrugs after each question, then lets her head fall back to look up at the ceiling. “But then Varric killed him and it--” She swallows. “I got up, I kept fighting. It didn’t happen. It didn’t end.”

There is a melancholic wistfulness to her questions that reaches him even though her voice is barely more than a whisper. She looks away from him as she talks, shrugging with one shoulder, seemingly ambivalent in the face of a brush with death, and her tone turns bitter towards the end, as if continuing the fight and leaving the city was not the outcome she’d wanted. Sebastian pales to consider the alternative. 

“Some Champion I was, fucking one of the greatest dangers to the city I was supposed to be protecting. Filthy.” She scratches at her arms with her nails until he reaches out to stop her, setting his hands over hers to still her, hoping she doesn’t notice the way he’s shaking. 

“My heart’s not the same shape anymore,” she continues. “I took it back from him, but it’s…” She draws a hand out of his grasp and rubs at her chest, pulling in a breath as her words trail off. “I helped him, and he blackmailed me when I asked. I didn’t tell anyone, I didn’t do anything.” She shakes her head. “I could have stopped it, if only I’d pushed harder, but it’s-- it’s terrifying, to be told you don’t love someone while they hold your heart in their hand and squeeze. I let him keep it until I cut it out of him.” Hawke looks down at her hand, turns it over as if seeing it for the first time. “I put it back, but it’s bruised. I can feel his fingerprints when I breathe, and doesn’t that make all this my crime as well?”

Fat tears that have gathered in her eyes spill over when she blinks, and Sebastian reaches out, cupping her cheeks and wiping them away with his thumbs. It horrifies him to think that she has been in this much pain for this long and simply carried on around them as if nothing was wrong, and he castigates himself to hear and see how completely he has failed her. Everything that he learned about compassion and the healing of the soul, and he was blind to her struggling. He is awed by her strength, her ability to stand and fight and keep going in the face of this blackness, but she should not have had to face it alone. He promises himself, and swears silently to her that she will never feel so alone again. If he can be nothing more than a friend to her, then he will be so steadfast in his friendship that she need never again feel as though she needs to carry all this inside her.

“I’m sorry, Hawke. I should never have said--” 

She shakes her head even as he tries to reassure her, and when she pushes at his wrists he takes his hands away, setting them in his lap. She wipes at her eyes again with the heel of her hand, blinking hard and looking up at the ceiling. Even now she will not accept his help with something as simple as wiping away her tears.

“I should get washed up,” she mumbles. 

Sebastian clears his throat and stands. “Sit. I’ll take care of it.”

He warms water over the fire, shaving thin slices of soap from the bar next to the basin and dropping them in to melt, the scent of embrium mixing with the warm smokiness of the air. Out of the corner of his eye he sees that she’s returned to unbraiding her hair, turned on the bed so that her face is away from him, even shifting when he walks from the fire to the basin.

The water steams up the mirror so that he sees no more than a hazy outline of himself, a shadow of beard, the darkness around his eyes. He’s itched for days and would like to shave, but Hawke comes first. 

He takes an extra cloth and hangs it over the top of the mirror, draping it to cover the surface. 

“There we are, then. All set for you.”

He steps away, settling into the armchair closest to the fire, hands clasped between his knees, now unsure where to look. The room is unexpectedly large, with a fireplace and a window. Under the window sits a low, round table, one armchair on each side. They might have matched once, but years of sun and uneven use have left the one farther from the fire a lighter reddish-pink than the other.

Hawke stands stiffly, toeing off her boots and setting them near the edge of the bed. It will be a tight fit for the sisters to sleep in later, but somehow he thinks that that’s a good thing. They’ve slept curled against each other every night so far, and this should be no different.

She pauses in front of the basin, fingers curled where she’s started to pull up the edge of her tunic.

“Maybe you should--”

“I should wait outside.” They speak at the same time, Sebastian already up and moving to the door. “I’ll see about the food. I won’t be far.”

“Sebastian.” He stops when she says his name, turning back to look. She’s let go of her tunic, and is standing with her head over the basin, her face veiled by her hair. “I didn’t want to get to Starkhaven.” 

The statement knocks the air out of him, and he takes a step towards her, unsure how to respond. “Hawke, you said--”

“I wanted  _ you  _ to go to Starkhaven,” she continues. “I wanted you to take all of them with you, but I didn’t want to make it to the city.”

They’re both exhausted, and he can not imagine what else is in her mind, but this, he wants to understand. If she had asked, he would have helped them return to Kirkwall, or to a port. It would have hurt him, but this journey was not started for his sake. “What do you mean?”   


She gestures near the side of her head, a rolling motion with her hand. “I’ve been walking in fog. I can’t get enough sleep, I wake up tired every day. I didn’t want to stand up. I couldn’t say it, but all I wanted was for you to let me sit down and not have to stand up again. I just wanted to stop, I wanted it all to stop. I didn’t want to leave Kirkwall, but I didn’t want to make it to Starkhaven. I didn’t want to make it. Do you see? When that Templar hit me, I thought it was for the best that it all just end, and coming here?” She shrugs and shakes her head. “I could have turned into a stone on the forest floor and felt the same about it. I kept walking because I knew you all would not go without me, and you needed to get to Starkhaven.”

Hawke looks back at him over her shoulder, hair shifting so that he can see her haunted eyes. He’s not sure he wants to see; her meaning lies between the words, in the things she doesn’t say. The thought that Hawke wanted to die is a frightening one. Even the idea that she would be indifferent about her life is troubling, so far from the certainty and strength that he admires in her. With all that she has been through, however, he can not call it weakness for her to want to give up; it’s more than any one person should have to bear. Guilt courses through him to hear that she suffered this alone.

“Padi,” he whispers. Her eyes flick up to meet his and he thinks he sees a flash of annoyance in her set brows before she looks away again. He wants only to help, not to chastise her or lecture her on her own importance in others’ lives. That could well be part of the problem. “Do you still feel that way, now that we’re here?”

It unsettles him to see that she has to think before she answers. Her shoulders settle, and she licks at her lips, her gaze turned inwards as she comes to a decision. In the same moment that he steps towards her, unable to keep watching her battle this on her own, she shakes her head and waves him away again, drawing closed the window that she’d opened inside her. “I should do this while the water’s warm, but thank you for helping. For staying with me, for making sure I made it to Starkhaven, too.”

He gives a small nod that she doesn’t see as she looks away. “I’ll be right outside.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, and the words follow him as he slips out the door.

The hallway is empty, giving Sebastian a much-needed opportunity to pace, and to scold himself. This is not new pain for her. Much of it is clearly old, things that she’s carried for months and years. Sebastian is not her only friend, but he fears that she’s told no one of these darkest thoughts, and returns again and again to the realization that he has failed her. There is little be can do about the past, however, and as he stares at the cobwebs above the door, he tells himself that he will do better for Hawke. She needs support now, and he will give that to her.

He has no idea how long he’s stood in the hall when a serving boy comes carefully up the stairs, eyes wide as he watches the bowl on the tray, not wanting anything to spill. Sebastian takes it from him as soon as he’s able, giving the boy a grateful smile and a couple coins before sending him on his way. He’s too young to recognize Sebastian as anything other than a generous tipper. There’s some sort of creamy soup, a chunk of rye bread still warm from the oven, and a plate piled high with smoked fish. There’s also a bottle of ale, probably a standard part of the meal, but not something for either of them tonight, he thinks. 

He balances the plate on one hand and knocks on the door with the other. “Hawke? Is it all right for me to come in again? I have food.”

No answer. He hesitates, then opens the door slowly, leading with the tray, not wanting to startle her or put either of them in an uncomfortable position.

Hawke is in bed, under the covers, fast asleep with her head pillowed on her hand. His gaze follows her bare arm up to her shoulder to where she disappears under the blankets. When he turns, he sees her clothes hanging near the fire to dry, and he can’t help but be a little impressed by her efficiency. He hadn’t thought he’d been out in the hallway that long.

He crosses the room to set the tray on the table near the window, settling in to one of the armchairs beside it. He pops a piece of fish into his mouth and watches her sleep, trying to decide if it’s more the shame to wake her, or to let her go hungry. 

He hasn’t had smoked fish like this since he was a boy, and he knows without trying it exactly how the bread will taste as well. He wants to share it, to explain about the memories attached, and remark on how the lower circles of the city usually have the better food because there are no expectations placed on them to be fancy or original; it’s simple, hearty food with local fresh ingredients rather than the imported things that he remembers being popular among nobility, more expensive than flavorful. He wants to see the others delight in the things that he enjoys, but there is no one for him to talk to, and so he enjoys his first taste of Starkhaven in silence. It is better than he recalled, and having stilled his hunger, Sebastian settles deeper into the chair, eyes darting to Hawke as he murmurs prayers, not wanting to wake her.

“Maker, I thank you for your guidance and protection on our path to Starkhaven, and ask that you continue to watch over us on our endeavors. We--I know my purpose now, and would ask your help in reclaiming the throne of the city so that I may act as your servant here.”

He scratches a hand through his hair and sighs, frustrated. Most nights he enjoys the language of prayer, that particular way of weaving words to lift them to the Maker’s ear, but tonight he is simply too exhausted for the work of it, and so he offers plainly instead.

“Help her to know peace here, to find safety within the walls of the city, to find a home here that will never send her away. If You see fit to use me in this, I am Your willing servant, in this as in all things. Lift this darkness from her and fill her with Your Light.”

He has no memory of falling asleep in the chair, but it’s where he wakes up, hands folded on his stomach, boots taken off and set to one side. The blanket that’s been draped over him was perhaps once tucked in around his shoulders, but it’s since fallen down, only keeping parts of him from feeling the chill of the room. Broken pieces of the Chant fade from his thoughts as he focuses. 

_ Though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing can break me except your absence. _

Hawke is dressed again, sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes closed as she plaits her hair. She looks better, refreshed, and he is relieved to see it. He clears his throat as he sits up straight in the chair, sucking in a breath when his shoulder protests against the night’s choice of resting positions.

She opens her eyes and looks at him, her smile almost shy as she lowers her gaze again, concentrating on her hands.

_ I am not alone. Even as I stumble on the path with my eyes closed, yet I see the Light is here. _

“Good morning,” he offers, surprised at the hoarseness in his voice. “I apologize, I hadn’t meant to sleep here.”

“I guess Bethany didn’t have the heart to wake us. I found her curled up next to the fire with Canut.” She glances at the small woven rug in front of the fireplace. “I think she slept warmer than either of us, though next time, you could sleep in the bed, too, and then we’d both be warm.”

She tosses the comment out without any sort of warning, and he can only gape, not sure he heard her correctly. “Hawke?”

It comes out sharper than he means it to, and for a moment they both stand and stare at each other. Hawke’s flirted with him before, but in Kirkwall it always seemed a joke, something to make the others laugh; it even worked at times to make him feel included. It was never something as pointed or as possible as her suggestion now, and he flushes as he searches for some way to reply. He can’t hide his confusion as he looks back at her, thinking he sees something in her eyes as if there’s more she wants to say.

It fades as fast as it appears, the faint smile at one corner of her mouth falling. “Come on,” she sighs. There’s disappointment in her voice that he doesn’t understand the source of. “Varric’s waiting for us in his room. He’s got breakfast for everyone.”

She’s already at the door, so he pulls on his boots quickly and stumbles after her into the hallway. He’s glad to hear that the others are eager to get started, but concerned about their expectations. He has no idea what the Keep will look like inside, if he’s been recognized, or any of a dozen other factors that could make this an impossible feat.

Varric’s room is two doors up but before entering, Hawke pauses, turning and setting a hand on Sebastian's chest. She focuses her eyes there instead of looking at his face, and he waits, sees how her jaw works as she searches for words.

“About last night. Thank you for being there, and for not saying anything. Please don’t mention it to the others.” Every word sounds as if it’s pulled from her by force, and he waits until he’s sure she’s done before he replies.

“I am sorry to see you hurting.” He’s careful to keep his voice low, so near to the others. “I wanted to help, but I didn’t know what to say that would be right. For me, your strength is not found in your beauty alone, but neither are damaged as far as I can see.”

Sebastian lifts her chin, gently, his thumb on her cheek resting just below the trailing edge of the scar. “You are whole and healthy, and I thank the Maker for that every day.” She leans into his touch, and he slips an arm around her, surprised and relieved when she reciprocates the hug.

He sets his chin on top of her head. “And on those days when you can’t stand on your own, please know that you have friends that love you, and who will carry you until you can walk again.” Affection blossoms in him, glows so that he fears she might be able to see it in his eyes, around his armor, all of him alight to see her happier today, to be permitted to hold her close.

“After everything, the way I fell apart last night. I don’t understand,” she mumbles. “How can you stand to be anywhere near me?”

Sebastian shakes his head, confusion returning but from a different direction this time. He doesn’t want to see her fall back into the despair she’d shown the night before, and it’s there in her voice again, threatening to return. At the same time, this is so contrary to her demeanor earlier that he finds himself lost and unsure. If she can't imagine why he would want to be near her, then surely she can't imagine him being in her bed. 

Perhaps it was an exaggerated attempt to show how much better she felt, a way to try to make things seem normal again and keep him from worrying. It’s not entirely successful, given this downturn, but he will keep an eye on her and do what he can to bolster her spirits. 

“Where else should I be,” he replies with a light squeeze around her shoulders, “but at my best friend’s side when she needs me?”

The moment passes swiftly after that, and Hawke steps away, putting unwelcome distance between them. She smiles at him but it’s brittle, and the nod she gives him is shaky. “Best friends,” she repeats, searching his face with her eyes before turning away, one hand on the door to Varric’s room. 

“We should get in there before they elect Varric Prince instead.” There’s an edge to her voice when she says it, making the joke more uncomfortable than funny, and Sebastian isn’t sure if he’s being mocked. There’s no time to follow up, however, as she steps inside and offers the others a bright greeting.

Over a shared breakfast of warm bread, jam, butter, and sliced meats, plans are discussed and discarded. Fenris is averse to anything involving what he considers excessive use of magic, and on that point Sebastian agrees with him. Scaling the walls of the Keep, creating distractions, gathering help from the people of the city, and a dozen other ideas on a sliding scale of reasonable to insane are suggested. Unfortunately, most of them of them require time that Sebastian does not see them as having. He cannot hide in Starkhaven, not for long, nor does he want to. Never before did he feel himself called to the duty of Prince, but now that he’s inside the walls again, it is as if the throne calls to him, and he will not ignore it. This is what he came to do.

In the end, Merrill’s approach is the one they can all agree on. It's just crazy enough to work, according to Varric.

It is Sebastian’s home. They will walk up and knock on the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	5. Taking the Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sebastian Vael was never more alone than when he’d left Starkhaven, and never in his life did he think that he would return surrounded by friends. The thought threatens to overwhelm him, and he shakes his head to clear it before leaning hard against the doors, throwing them wide and stepping into the throne room._
> 
> Time to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [lucyrne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theungenue) for the beautiful moodboard! It felt like a great fit for this chapter and was originally posted [here](https://lucyrne.tumblr.com/post/184160426802/its-not-up-to-him-to-give-it-to-me-i-find-it) along with a bit from a later chapter.

The sun peeks out from behind a cloud to greet them as they step out of the tavern. Sebastian hopes to lead them on a different path through this level of the city, in part to keep them from returning to the scene of the fight the night before, and in part because he knows that the way he is showing them now will let them see Starkhaven from her best side. A night’s sleep within the city’s walls has stilled some of the urgency that drove him the night before, as well as dampening the exhilaration he felt upon seeing the city again. He has his companions with him and Hawke at his side, and they have something of a plan -- to approach the Keep and announce Sebastian’s return. With these pieces in place, Sebastian finds it easier to take time to enjoy the fact that he is back in Starkhaven, even as he chooses not to examine the weight in his stomach at the thought of returning to the Keep.

It’s still morning, and shops open around them as they walk. Merchants smile and wave, hoping for a few early customers to start their days. The street, like most in Starkhaven, is set with wide, pale stones, dry, save for the places where flowers have been watered or fish set out, displayed on mounds of crushed ice, ready to be taken home and prepared. Sebastian cocks an eyebrow as he glances up at the sun, then back down at the ice. He’d known that mages were called on to assist the merchants when there was a Circle in the city, but now that it’s gone, he wonders what sort of compensation is worth something that is so obviously the work of an apostate, or else some magical artifact designed to freeze the water brought in from the Minanter. Surely the Templars would have dealt with such a situation, if this were the work of a mage.

“They catch them in the wee hours of the morning and bring some of them up here to be sold,” Sebastian recalls, “but there’s also an auction house where restaurants, noble families, even the Keep can have first pick of what the fisherman bring in. It’s different every day.” 

Merrill pauses and crouches, looking one of the larger fish in the eye. Sebastian has no idea what she sees other than a dead fish, and doesn’t want to ask. The man behind the counter tosses a scrap to Canut who hops to catch it and has to be collected a moment later, having stayed to beg for more instead of following with them to the next street.

“How many levels are there in Starkhaven, Sebastian?” Bethany has stayed at her sister’s side since they met in Varric’s room, stopping when Hawke stops, never more than a step away from her even though her sister looks restored after a night’s sleep in a proper bed. Sebastian is glad to see the light in her eyes again, the way that she pays more attention to everything around them. 

“Well, several,” he replies, chuckling. “It depends on where in the city you’re counting from. It’s not necessarily nice concentric rings leading up to the Keep. The hill it was built on was uneven, and so is the city around it.”

Merrill gasps at the back of the group. “Is that why we keep taking stairs and not getting any higher?”

Fenris laughs, as do some of the others, and Sebastian along with them. “Yes,” he concedes with a sigh, a little embarrassed at being caught out. “I haven’t done it intentionally, it’s just that I’d forgotten how pleasant it could be to simply walk around here.”

Pleasant is an understatement. Starkhaven is a city known for its beauty and opulence, and even in the lower levels they pass buildings with marble set into the front walls, gold accents on doors and windows. These details and embellishments increase the higher they come, a subtle but noticeable marker of wealth, and the power that comes with it. Instead of wild-grown gardens and potted plants, there are manicured bushes and carefully-tended flowerbeds. Too many of them have elves doing the tending, Sebastian notes, finding himself unable to look at Merrill and Fenris as they pass. He notes the sounds that Fenris makes, but if Merrill is bothered then it’s less obvious, any displeasure hidden by the slowly growing bouquet that she’s carrying, new flowers collected from every mansion.

In those rare moments when Sebastian had entertained the idea of coming back to Starkhaven, he had always imagined his fury. He would descend on the city in a hail of arrows, backed by an army; or he would be alone, moving through shadows, sneaking into his own home as an intruder. He had never imagined that he would find himself leading an unorganized tour with his friends, in broad daylight, comfortable and even a bit proud of his home as he sees the others take it in. To say that he feels welcomed would be an overstatement, but he does not feel shunned. The pain of how he was separated from Starkhaven is a distant memory. Today is already a momentous reunion, and hopefully the best is yet to come. This is what Sebastian tells himself time and again as they walk, pushing down the knot that slowly tightens inside him at the thought of marching up to the doors. He can all but see the rope that ties him to the Keep, a strange sort of thing that pulls him closer, but feels lighter when he turns onto a sidestreet that moves their destination out of sight.

The scent of bread and tea, even coffee, meets them as they pass bakeries and cafés, and Sebastian is led by senses other than sight as they make their way up to the higher parts of the city. The stones under his feet still feel the same, the smells are familiar, even the sound of water from a fountain pulls at the back of his mind. It is a contrast to the sound and scent of the sea that met Sebastian as soon as he stepped into the Chantry courtyard in Kirkwall, with its streets worn smooth where the stones of Starkhaven are still rough. Sebastian puts the memories from his mind, determined to focus on where he is now, not what he has left behind, even if the current scene is overlaid by foggy memories of evenings spent walking the streets, arm in arm with a lady, or surrounded by those he would have called friends at the time. Now he knows better.

The sharp scent of herbs and berries hits like a blow when Sebastian turns a corner. Varric makes an approving sound behind him, but he can only try to move away and seek out fresher air, the smell of distilling spirits making him dizzy and slightly ill.

“You all right there, Choir Boy?” Varric sounds amused, but also with an undercurrent of concern, so unusual that it worries Sebastian as much as his own reaction. “You look a little green.”

Sebastian nods and waves off the person at the edge of his vision, resting his hands on his knees. The reaction is far stronger than anything he felt walking into the Hanged Man, perhaps because the sort of spirits Starkhaven makes wouldn’t be found there. The stench of stale beer and vomit is a far cry from jenever berries. They’ve also been walking for most of the morning, and while he would like to be able to blame the strength of the feeling on heat or hunger or dehydration, none of these are present. It is simply the power of memory washing over him, a vile reminder of nights spent surrounded by glasses and people who smelled of the stuff: a perfume in the evening and absolute stench in the mornings after.

“One more thing that’s changed since I left,” he remarks when he’s found his voice again. “The distillery used to be on the other side of the city. Or perhaps there are two now. Starkhaven’s spirits are popular across Thedas, and it’s good to see that the city prospers.” He chuckles, more to himself than the others. “I would’ve thought they’d have to close down after I left, with me not around to keep them in coin. They could’ve all but written ‘Official Supplier to Sebastian’s Drunken Revelry’ on the bottles.”

Varric laughs at that, with Bethany and Merrill joining after a moment’s hesitation. When he turns to look, Fenris is gazing back at him with one brow brow arched, unsure how to respond, and Hawke is watching him with furrowed brows and soft eyes, her head tilted slightly to one side. It looks like sympathy, not at all what he wanted when he made the joke, and he glances away. It’s taken him years to get to the point where he can look back on his past without pain. In Kirkwall his memories had become smooth glass that he could hold in his hand without fear, but here in Starkhaven there are still sharp edges: the scent of the spirits was one of them, but the joke helps, even if all the others don’t understand it. He will try to keep that in mind for the rest of their tour through the city.

Merrill draws a breath and turns on her heel to look away from him, up at the high front wall of the building. A sign hangs out over the street proclaiming the name of the distiller, with a picture of berries and a bottle etched into the wood. “Jenever berries. I wouldn’t have thought to put those in spirits. The Dalish use a sort of grass in ours. No two clans make it exactly the same way.”

Sebastian nods. He recalls hearing of the Dalish liquor, but the version that was available in one or two taverns in Starkhaven was allegedly a poor counterfeit, and he can’t be sure if he ever tried it. “The berries grow wild in the forest to the north of the city, and some of the other herbs as well.” The hills that rise behind the Keep are only barely visible from where they stand, the tops of evergreen trees pointing towards the sky. “The older distillery was started after the Second Blight and has been exporting spirits for ages, literally.” He considers the building, then turns away to start walking again, joining the group close to Bethany. “It’s a shame Isabela isn’t here. They make a sort called Pirate’s Strength that I think she’d rather enjoy.”

“Seems like a strange name for a spirit,” Bethany replies.

“Well, according to the story of it-- one I’ve not confirmed, I’d like to add-- it’s much stronger than the regular one, so that if you were to pour it on black powder, the powder would still explode afterwards.” Bethany gasps beside him, and he grins. “The weaker stuff will only wet the powder and make it useless, which makes for a good, but dangerous test of the strength of the stuff you’ve been given.”

“Or taken,” she adds, and Sebastian chuckles, nodding. With pirates, he supposes that one is just as likely as the other. 

The clouds and sun move slowly overheard as Sebastian leads them up streets and down alleys. He keeps away from the lowest points of the city, those parts closest to the water. They came near enough last night, and even if their path is roundabout, he is meant to be leading them up to the Keep. He’s also careful to keep them away from the other distillery, not relishing the idea of another wave of nausea-tinged nostalgia. He tells them about Starkhaven as they walk, about the book-binders that receive manuscripts from all corners of Thedas and make them into printed works to be sold in shops in Ferelden, Orlais, and other cities in the Free Marches. Starkhaven’s printing presses are fast and accurate, and the books are a proud export, even if few of them are written within the city walls. There is even one run by the Chantry, dedicated to making printed copies of the Chant in order to help spread the Maker’s word. Varric listens intently, and Sebastian sees his gaze lingering on the building with a front of cream-colored stone and a sign above the door with a book lying open.

“There’s no way we haven’t seen the entire city by now.” Bethany pauses, leaning against an ornate iron fence outside of an estate. She rolls her ankles one at a time, lifting her feet to give them some moment of relief from the stone street. The houses have shown a gradual shift away from coarse and porous stone to more and more marble and granite; the mansions closest to the Keep are designed to match the stone of the palace, or as close as they can come without being obvious in their reproduction. Progress up to the Keep is going slowly, not only because of Sebastian’s warring sensations at the thought of his return, but also due to the others. Canut has quickly become popular among merchants and servants alike, begging on command and showing off in exchange for treats. Merrill’s bouquet is beautiful, but also large. 

“There’s still plenty of city to see,” Sebastian replies, “but I guess we have been walking quite a while, haven’t we?” He tries to chuckle and shake it off, but it doesn’t feel convincing even to himself. They have been walking for the better part of the morning, and while Bethany is the first to have mentioned it, he suspects the others have noticed as well. Canut gives up as soon as they stop, flopping down next to Bethany with a demonstrative yawn as he rests his chin on his legs. The sun has long since chased away the chill of the morning, but it is not so warm that they are wilting in the heat. Nonetheless, all of them have been travelling for days, and one night in good beds is not enough to restore all their strength. Sebastian cannot keep delaying their approach to the Keep. There are only so many side streets with interesting houses, only so many hours in the day, and there is only so much patience among the others. The long walk has been nostalgic, but done nothing for the knot in his stomach.

“You seem less worried about being seen today.” Hawke comes to stand beside him, and her presence both calms and startles him, his anxiety shifting with his focus; the Keep becomes distant in comparison with the feeling of her arm brushing against his, the way the sunlight brightens her hair.

“I was worried about the guards, but less so here.” He keeps his voice low and looks down at her out of the corner of his eye, as if she is too much for his heart and mind to take on head-on. “And here in the city, it’s as I said: when things are going well, no one cares who’s on the throne. They are not looking for a hero to save them from my cousin. The way the guards just let us through?” He waves his hand. “I can be myself because no one here is looking for me.”

He doesn’t have to look to know that she’s watching him. “You don’t seem happy about that.”

“I’ve had moments today where I’ve--” He stops and runs his hand over his face, does his best to collect his thoughts before he continues. “Twice today I’ve forgotten that my parents and brothers aren’t in the Keep. I feel like I’m in two… not two places at once, but two _ times _. I’m here, now, with all of you, and yet I find myself walking through the city as if it’s sixteen years ago. And then I remember.”

Hawke nods, and for a moment they’re both quiet. “I used to call for my mother when I came home. Like she was just in another room. I didn’t do it at first, but after a few months, it was like my mind had forgotten what happened somehow.” She spreads her hands as she searches for words, her mouth slightly open. “Everything felt normal again, and she was part of normal, so of course she was there somewhere.” She sets a hand on his arm, and he turns to look at her. “You were away for a long time. Your mind’ll need time to catch up.”

Sebastian nods, hesitating before setting his hand over hers. “Thank you, Hawke.” The realization that he was expecting a reunion that could never happen had settled like a stone in his stomach, and her words help to lighten it. It will take time, a luxury that he looks forward to having, but something he’s wasted far too much of already today.

“We should get going.”

It’s two quick turns for him to lead them to their destination. The air itself shifts when they ascend the wide, shallow stairway that leads up to the central courtyard in front of the Keep. The stone is smooth to the point of polished, catching the sun and reflecting it back as they walk. On the ground level it is less noticeable but Sebastian recalls well that, when one looks down on the space from the Keep itself, the stones are set in a checkerboard pattern, meticulously chosen and placed long before his family came to power.

Their approach pauses conversations, but not the babble of water from the fountains, or the distant sound of music coming from one end of the square. There are small stalls with vendors but none of them call to the group to ply them with their wares. Sebastian hears Fenris clear his throat behind him and nods, knowing that Fenris perhaps already looks to him for direction. They are attracting too much attention, and so he hurries their pace towards the main doors. 

So much is just as he recalls it, and yet so much seems different. The steps are narrower than in his memories, though there seem to be more of them, as if they are ever-shifting to keep him from reaching the door. 

He does reach it, however, stopping only when the guards step forward.

“No admittance, ser. Don’t even know how you got this far. On your way now.”

He hears Varric chuckle behind him. His own smile is cooler, what he imagines regal authority to be. He thinks of his father and the way he held his head, for now is not the time for the softness and patience of a Chantry Brother.

“Gentlemen. You are to be applauded for doing your duty so admirably.” He looks from one to the other with a deliberate glance. “Your loyalty will be remembered, but right now you are denying entry to the rightful Prince of Starkhaven. I would suggest you step aside.”

“Might even consider running to tell someone,” Hawke offers over his shoulder.

“It can’t be,” the other guard replies, shaking his head. He’s younger, so young he might not even recall the rebel son who spent his days and nights on the streets of the city. “Don’t know where you’ve come from, but the whole family was killed. Terrible business.”

“Were they?” Sebastian asks, head turned slightly to the side as if he is about to whisper a secret to them. The sly confidence comes so naturally that he surprises himself, tamping the shock down as quickly as it comes. He must remember that he knows how to do this, was a master of persuasion in his younger days. “Were _ all _the sons killed? All three?”

“No, there were just--” Realization dawns on the older man’s face, and he stops, looking at Sebastian anew. The Prince takes more after his father than his mother, at least in his own estimation, and the week’s worth of beard on his jaw only adds to that, he knows. In the inn earlier, he’d thought he’d seen a ghost when he passed a mirror, just as the guard thinks he’s seeing one now. 

Sebastian leans back and looks from one guard to the other, one eyebrow raised.

“Your Highness. We-- I--”

“It’s all right,” he interrupts, wanting to save both sides from a long scene. “You were protecting the city, and I’ve not been home in a long time. But now, if the matter is settled?” He gestures towards the doors.

The guards rush to open them, mumbled apologies and platitudes falling from their mouths even as they heave the massive doors out of the way, allowing for a full view of the long corridor leading to the main hall.

Sebastian steps inside, taking a moment to look around. Crossing the threshold is like traveling through time, and he’s eighteen again, listening for his mother’s footsteps so that he can slip out of sight and up to his chambers. The pale stone archways carry echoes well; every click of armor and swish of fabric resonate around him. His pulse races, muscle memory sure he’ll be caught sneaking in, but then Hawke steps up beside him and looks at him, smiles, and he’s back in the present. His heart pounds for a different reason.

He holds his grandfather’s bow lightly in his hand as he walks, almost bouncing it in his grip. He needs to be ready to react any second. Even if the others are with him, he will be the target, and it should not be up to them to protect him. The hushed sounds of preparation follow them up the hall: the scratch of Fenris drawing his blade, the dull scrape of Varric unholstering Bianca. Even the creak of a bowstring as Hawke moves to one side of the hall, nodding at him. 

_ I’ve seen her save your life. _The words from years ago come back to him unbidden, and he hopes that won’t be the case today.

Their approach is slow to start, sneaking around columns and tiptoeing past doorways. He feels more the target in his armor, but he will not be mistaken for a common criminal within his home. 

The Keep can be labyrinthine to those who don’t know it well, but Sebastian does, signalling with a motion of his hand for them to take a door to the left. It leads to a darker, narrower hallway, but more likely out of sight of any passing guards. The others follow close behind, Bethany and Merrill lighting the air around them enough to see by. 

He leads them to a spiral staircase and begins to climb, slowly, his bow in one hand and a dagger in the other, the latter more likely to be useful in close confines, but the former his steadfast ally. Fenris makes a sound of disapproval from the back of their group, and he stops, turning to look back.

“There’s a mezzanine around the throne room,” he whispers.

“How do you know that’s where we need to go?” Merrill looks nervous, head swiveling around, waiting for the first blow to come.

“Because the guards will run, they will tell someone, and Goran will be moved to the most defensible room in the Keep, if he wasn’t there already,” Sebastian explains.

As if to strengthen his argument, shouts can be heard echoing from the way they’d come. Fenris looks back once more, then nods, and they continue on. 

On the second floor they spread out again, able to move more swiftly over plush blue carpet, rich tapestries hiding the sound of their footsteps. 

A door opens and a serving girl crosses in front of them, arms around a basket brimming with linens. She gasps at the sight of them, about to scream when Sebastian pauses. Chin tilted down, he looks up at her from beneath his lashes, bringing a single finger to his lips to shush her. The girl goes pink, and when he glances off towards the doorway, she hurries inside again, looking back as she goes. 

“Sebastian,” Hawke whispers. When he turns to look at her, she’s grinning, open-mouthed and incredulous. Smiling, he gives her the same look, shushing her as well, before shifting his weight and setting off up the hallway again, faster now. They cannot afford any more such interruptions, however entertained he may be. It’s something else he’d forgotten about his powers of persuasion: they can be fun when correctly applied.

The door to the throne room’s mezzanine is guarded by only a tall wisp of a fellow whose panic turns to determination as they run towards him. He draws his sword, hand shaking. 

“Thompson!” He shouts, looking to his right. “Thompson, to arms! We’re-- Thompson?”

Another man stumbles back out of the shadows, bringing the entire party to a halt. He shows no sign of life, simply tipping backwards like a felled tree to land in a crash of armor. For a moment everyone stares, their purposes forgotten.

Sebastian recovers first, striding towards the first guard and punching him square in the jaw. He goes down with less grace than his companion, collapsing in a heap against the door.

“Took you lot long enough.” A familiar voice is followed by a familiar face as Isabela steps out from behind a statue, re-lacing the front of her chemise. “I was running out of bits to tease him with.”

Sebastian looks from her to the guards and back. “Isabela! How did you know to come here?”

“I thought, ‘what’s the worst plan you could possibly come up with’ and it was this, so here I am, and none too soon, I see.”

Varric laughs behind them. “I hate to break up the reunion, but we do have a slightly more pressing matter.”

“Those two guards won’t be the last,” Bethany says. “There will be more behind those doors.” 

Sebastian nods at them. She’s right, as is Varric.

“Not as many as if we’d stayed downstairs. They might even have taken them down to put them in the hall with Goran.” It’s a point of stubbornness, not to refer to his cousin by title. 

He steps over the guards’ bodies and sets an ear to the door. There’s a commotion, but distant, carried up rather than directly behind the door. Perhaps their good luck will continue a moment longer. 

“We’re with you, Choir Boy,” Varric calls as he hefts Bianca in his hands, readying her to fire.

Sebastian Vael was never more alone than when he’d left Starkhaven, and never in his life did he think that he would return surrounded by friends. The thought threatens to overwhelm him, and he shakes his head to clear it before leaning hard against the doors, throwing them wide and stepping into the throne room.

The mezzanine is empty, a row of richly upholstered chairs against the back wall but no guards to speak of. They hurry in, Hawke and Bethany passing him to move farther into the room, closer to the throne, theoretically. Fenris stays near Sebastian, while Varric and Isabela enter last, Isabela giggling as soon as she’s through the doors.

“Oh, dear, I’m-- I’m so sorry, it’s not _ actually _ funny, is it?” She wipes carefully at a tear under one eye.

“Laugh it up Rivaini, it just means more work for you,” Varric grumbles as he steps to the wall at the front of the mezzanine. Low though it may be, he can only just see over it, with no opportunity to aim Bianca anywhere useful. 

“You’re gonna fix this when you take over, right?” He asks as he turns and drags a chair over, muttering curses as he climbs up on it, resting the crossbow on the railing.

Sebastian gives him a nod, unable to keep from smiling a little. “First order of business.”

“Let’s get this over with, then.”

A hush falls as they show themselves to the assembly below, the chatter about the noises from the mezzanine ceasing when they step to the railing and look down. At the far end of the room Sebastian sees Goran, sitting in his father’s throne--his throne--with advisers on either side of him. They are all of them dressed in rich fabrics covered by ill-fighting armor, and while Goran appears unsure which end of his sword to hold, there is one with a staff who looks like he knows what he’s doing, no doubt of the agents who had a hand in the assassination of Sebastian’s family. Standing before the advisers is one of the guards from the entrance. The guard looks back over his shoulders and points up to the mezzanine, shouting.

“It’s him, Your Highness!”

Between Goran and the main door to the throne room, at least thirty guards stand, swords drawn, and they turn as a one to look up at the band assembled above them.

Most of them scatter, but Sebastian sends a couple of them tumbling when he hops from the mezzanine, landing on an upturned shield before coming to rest in the center of the room. Time seems suspended at he rises to his feet, bow in his hand, eyes fixed on his traitorous cousin.

The advisers step forward first, their eyes dark as they glare at him. One shouts for the guards to advance, and Sebastian draws his bow, body turned, arrow aimed straight at Goran. He will not kill the man if he mustn’t. Perhaps a knee, or a shoulder. There is a lot of him that isn’t protected by the armor he wears.

His breath flutters the fletching of his arrow.

“_Wait_!”

Guards and advisers alike sway where they stand as Goran rises from the throne. It takes effort; Sebastian had been generous when describing his cousin’s fingers as a little fat, and the time on the throne has clearly done nothing for his health. Even so, he stands, dropping his sword and raising both his hands as he walks towards Sebastian. The guards part, looking at each other, unsure whether to sheath their weapons. 

Goran is smiling, and there is no malice in his face. 

Slowly, with a shaking arm, Sebastian lowers his bow.

“Sebastian, you’ve come back.” The relief in his voice is palpable and baffling. Goran looks as if he’s weighing the idea of hugging him; Sebastian takes a step away but not before Goran can set a hand on his arm. “You’ve come for the throne, yes? Does that mean I can go home now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! Please come say hello on my [tumblr](https://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	6. Settling In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Acting as Prince means that Sebastian can deal with what remains of those who killed his family. Acting is not the same as being Prince, however, and it's time for that to change.

“Leave the Free Marches and never return." Sebastian's voice carries through the throne room. "This is my and the Maker’s mercy to you. If you should be seen again within eighty leagues of this city, you will be hunted, you will be captured, and you will be executed for treason against the city of Starkhaven.”

Sebastian paces before the throne, head tipped back so that he looks down his nose at the three men, the last of the advisers to be cleared from the Keep. The crown still feels unnatural on his head, as does using his authority to decide the fate of others. The audience in the chamber, however, is stilled to silence, watching and awaiting his next statement.

One of the advisers steps forward, framed by light from the high windows above the dais. “Your Highness, we only wished to--”

“You, Lord Bonnel, started a rumor in the city that I was dead and stoked it for years, even while my own family worked to make sure the truth was known. You worked against my family while they lived, and sided with their enemies to ensure their death.”

“I only meant--”

“Do you deny it!?” Sebastian’s voice rings off the pale stone walls, and the crowd retreats a step. The lord can do no more than shake his bowed head and return to his place on the narrow carpet that runs from the high, arched doorway to the foot of the steps below the throne. 

“I will not read your charges again. You each know what you have done. Be gone now. May the Maker have mercy on your souls.” He dismisses them with a wave of his hand, no interest in standing on ceremony to watch them go.

The men rise with what dignity they can muster, stripped of their finery and with the Prince’s back turned to them. They are unshackled and escorted from the room by armed guards. The scrape and shift of armor fills the hall as they march to the doors which open by some unseen command. Only when they have been brought to the long hallway leading to the doors of the Keep does Sebastian turn to watch. The men will be led to the city gates, given horses and supplies, and sent away. Their families will be allowed to stay in the city until such time as they find new homes, then they are to follow.

The sword at Sebastian’s hip is ceremonial, but his hand rests on the pommel, providing the illusion that he is prepared to use it, until they are out of sight, until the crowds in the hall begin to disperse into the shadows that line the sides of the room. The sword was Varric’s suggestion to make him appear more regal and intimidating, and he hates to see how well it works, paired with a heavy cloak and his white armor. When they’ve gone, he releases his grip on the sword, stretching his fingers where they were wrapped white-knuckle tight around it. The engraving on the sword leaves a pattern on his skin in patchy shades of pink, and he rubs at it with his thumb as stillness settles in the throne room again.

The room itself seems to breathe a sigh of relief when the spectacle is over. His friends--advisers they are now, as well--gathered around his throne turn from statues into people again, settling their weight like soldiers at ease, no longer standing at attention before the crowd. Hawke lifts off her helm and stretches her arms above her head with a luxurious groan that echoes around the room, setting them all to laughing.

“Why eighty leagues?” she asks, rolling her shoulders. “Seems an odd number.”

“It’s the distance from here to Kirkwall,” Varric replies without looking up from his writing. He is sitting at a low desk off to one side, stacks of papers around him. Even if he called the request a waste of his Maker-given talents, he’d nonetheless agreed to help Sebastian by recording everything said in the throne room during these judgments, and all other proceedings as well.

The weeks since their modest storming of the Keep have been turbulent, Sebastian’s first real taste of power coming in fits and starts as he and the others rooted out those within the city who were responsible for his family’s fate and for the installation of his cousin as Prince. Lady Harimann may have been the mastermind but such things could not be accomplished without spies within Starkhaven itself. 

In the end, the conspiracy proved to be greater than he could have imagined, with rumors of his death circulated after his exile to Kirkwall, followed by plans to assassinate him there as well, including instructions for the removal of Elthina if necessary. It was a suggestion which cast him into darkness for days after its discovery, but there had been little time to dwell as those who sought to bring ruin to his family were already attempting to flee justice.

That Lady Harimann was under the influence of a demon was something of an open secret in the correspondence, a fact that sickened Sebastian to read. These men cared nothing for her soul or salvation, only that her current state could be used to further their own agendas. There was ample discussion of how things were to be handled if she was found out, or turned into an abomination and killed. 

Through all of the letters, missives, and notes that Sebastian uncovered, all of the interrogations he held as he sought the truth, one thing became clear: none of them counted on his return. They’d known all along that he was alive but there was no mention of contacting him or any plan to deal with his coming back to Starkhaven. Rumors of his untimely demise such as those started by Lord Bonnel failed to gain foothold, first through his brothers’ work to make sure the truth was known, and then through a disheartening lack of interest after the murder of his family. No one considered him worth remembering, and while it wounds him to think that he was so easily set aside by the city, in a way he finds he must be grateful. Their disinterest in his fate made him a blind spot for all of them, one he’d exploited without even knowing it. 

Goran showed himself to be an invaluable resource through it all, and Sebastian regrets ever thinking of him as simple. True, the man’s mind works differently, is ordered in a fashion that Sebastian can not always understand, but he has a remarkable memory for facts and conversations, even those he is not meant to overhear. His reputation for being quiet and distant led to a great many discussions being held in his presence that should not have been, for he was able to name names and give irrefutable evidence of the crimes of many within the Keep.

Sebastian’s mercy was not so gracious with all of them as it had been with these last few stragglers, barely more than messengers for those who committed more grievous crimes. Fenris suggested public executions as a means of warning others, a display to cement his power, but the idea felt vulgar and Sebastian ultimately refused. That didn’t mean he avoided executions altogether, however. He found little satisfaction in dealing with these spies with blood on their hands, their signed letters showing that they revealed where his family would be, how best to approach them to kill them. These men--and they were all men-- met the Maker at the end of a rope, their bodies burned on humble pyres. Women have long since made their own place among the nobility, not needing a man at their side to wield wealth and power, and so it seemed with Lady Harimann in Starkhaven, that even when she was ruled by a demon, she was still the spearhead of the machinations to bring down the Vael family. Discovering that she was the only woman in their circle, however, somehow made her seem that much more a pawn, tricked by greedy men as well as her own desires, and Sebastian looked back on her with pity and remorse that he was unable to save her. 

The nobles’ ashes and some small compensation were offered to their families, most of whom quickly left the city afterwards. After each one, he spent the day sealed inside the chapel of the Keep in silent contemplation, armor exchanged for Chantry robes, kneeling before the altar to Andraste to beg forgiveness.

Amidst it all, rumors of an Exalted March swirled. Should they stay in Starkhaven, risk bringing the army of the Divine there as well as Kirkwall? Would such a measure even be taken, with Anders dead and the Champion out of the city? Hawke had wanted to leave, alone, to go into hiding to keep the others safe. In the end, only a letter carried by a raven and signed with the name Nightingale had assured them that there would be no march on Kirkwall, that the wrath of the Divine would be avoided, at least for a time. Sebastian and his companions would be safe enough to pursue matters in Starkhaven and Starkhaven alone, even if their thoughts returned to the city they had all left behind.

And now, finally, he’d dealt with this group, the last of those who wished to usurp Sebastian’s father and destroy his family, or the last that could be found and identified. Sebastian can see the temptation in continuing the search, plunging down every dark alley to seek answers, names, reasons. These are the same feelings that he had struggled with so soon after their death, but the years have shown him that no amount of information will be enough to bring his family back to him. They are gone, and he mourns them, and in doing this he hopes that he honors them. 

“You know, Sebastian, when I offered to help, I thought I might be doing more than acting as scribe during these things,” Varric sighs, his quill scratching at the paper even as he speaks. His account of the proceedings finished, he eases back from the low table at the corner of the dais, chair scraping against the floor.

“I know, and I don’t relish asking you to do such work, but I am currently short on trustworthy staff and advisers, I’m afraid. I do appreciate the help, though, and it makes for far more interesting reading than standard court documents,” he adds as he settles onto the throne, slouching, legs stretched out in front of him, devoid of any royal posture now that they are alone in the room. 

“I appreciate the help that all of you have been,” he continues, plucking the crown from his head as he looks around at them, dressed in their finery. “There have been so many people that I’ve found I could no longer trust. One of those men I sent away today, I played with his son as a boy!” He raises his voice at the memory though he knows there is no way the words can carry to wherever the disgraced nobles are now, then sighs, frustrated at his own anger and the futility of it, the uselessness of these old connections. His head is heavy when he rests it on his hand and stares into the distance as if he can still see them retreating. “I don’t know that I could have done this without you all with me. Your investigations and patience with me have been invaluable. As has your friendship.”

“Which is why you should throw us all a party,” Isabela replies. She was the most difficult to convince to wear more clothing to court, and even now her deep blue skirt has slits up to her hips on both sides, with a brocade bodice that accentuates more than it hides, enough that Sebastian doesn’t doubt that several men in the audience chamber failed to note the conditions of the judgement whatsoever. This is hardly the first time she’s raised such an idea, to the point where all assembled sigh when it comes up again.

“No,” she continues, holding out a hand. “I know, but I really mean it this time. You’ve cleaned house, which was obviously a necessity, but now that that’s done you need to show yourself to the city. They’ve only seen you sweep in from nowhere and start punishing people, sending them away, or worse.”

Sebastian straightens on the throne. He is not eager to agree with her and sees little to celebrate in the death and judgment he’s meted out, but this is not reasoning that she’s offered before, and there is an insistence in her voice that makes him curious. “I have great plans for this city, you know that.”

“_We_ do, yes.” She points towards the door, her high ponytail swinging when she turns to look back at him. “They don’t, and they need to. You’ve taken the throne, but you’ll never keep it without their support. You need to woo them, Sebastian, and there is no better way to do that than with a proper coronation and a good party afterwards.”

“I suppose you already have something in mind?” Hawke has been quiet so far, but now she steps forward, curious. Her armor rattles in the emptiness of the room; it’s more than she’d ever worn in Kirkwall but she herself insisted that she have something heavy and ceremonial for these occasions, draped with a blood-red cloak and wearing a longbow almost as tall as she is. If you’re going to have the Champion at your right hand, she’s got to live up to her reputation. Anyone who walks in here should know that she can do to Starkhaven what she did to Kirkwall.

Isabela lights up at the question, bangles on her arms clicking together as she spreads her hands to set the scene. “Two days. You have to start with the ceremony, obviously. You’ve come in and taken over, but your cousin lives. There needs to be a handover, an official motion of the crown passing from him to you. You need to be made Prince in front of the Maker, Andraste, and all of Starkhaven, and it needs to happen before anything else. Everything you’ve done so far has technically been under Goran’s reign, and it’s time to put an end to that.”

The rest of the group is silent, all of them turning to look at him. Sebastian knows she’s right, not least because he and Goran have spoken about it, but how she knows these things is a mystery to him. Isabela was never particularly open about her life prior to her time at sea. What she did speak of was shared in such a tone that it was difficult to know how much of it was true, yet these suggestions come from a place of such knowledge and confidence he can’t help but wonder how she came in contact with a world that would see her learning and using such information. 

Hawke nods as she listens, and Sebastian wonders for a moment how much of this Isabela did for her as well when she found herself suddenly titled again, with money and influence that she had little experience wielding. If there was ever any such party at Hawke Estate then he was not invited, but there are other, quieter ways to enter into a new tier of society, perhaps more to Hawke’s preference.

Much of what’s happened, Sebastian had no time to prepare for: leaving Kirkwall, taking the Keep, acting as judge and executioner. The role of Prince has been hanging over him ever since the day he returned to the city, even to the point of wearing the crown and sitting on the throne, and yet he still isn’t sure he’s ready. Having Goran in place provides a sort of comfort, a way to retreat from the reality of it. It is a charade he cannot maintain forever, not if he wants to truly help Starkhaven.

“What happens after the ceremony, then?” Merrill asks before Sebastian has a chance to, though she looks to him immediately after. Her eyes widen as if she’s realized some misstep or perceived breach of protocol, but Sebastian only smiles at her and nods, grateful that he is not the only one interested in Isabela’s planning.

“Well,” Isabela continues, grinning under their attention and interest, “what I would do first afterwards is an open house, airing of grievances sort of thing. The Prince--now officially you--sits on his throne and listens to any and all who wish to come before him, no matter how lowly or how simple their desires. In fact, the lower and simpler, the better. This is for the common folk, the lower classes. It’s winning hearts and minds. You don’t promise anything unless it’s something quick to solve; they need ten sovereigns for rent, the Prince can fix that, the Crown can take that from the royal coffers. They want a fountain built, it gets written down.” She gestures to Hawke and Varric in turn. “Then you use that as your starting point for your grand plans for the city, what people actually want and need.”

“What if that leads to everyone coming and asking for ten sovereigns whether they need it or not?” Merrill asks, her head swivelling as she looks between Sebastian and Isabela.

“People don’t work like that.” Sebastian opens his mouth to answer but stops when Hawke replies first, looking down at her bow in her hands as she mutters. “People--most people--want to work to make their way in the world. It’s embarrassing to beg, even if it’s the Crown you’re begging from.” She lifts her head and glances around the room, up to the high ceilings and along the balustrades at the sides. “To come into a room like this and admit you can’t feed your family takes a lot of bravery, a lot of humility. I don’t know how much money Starkhaven has, but something like fifty gold is probably less than a drop in the bucket for them, but for someone else, it can change their life.”

Her eyes move from Bethany to Varric before she looks at Merrill again. The way she carries herself now, the generosity she shows to others and the innate grace and elegance when she speaks can often lead Sebastian to forget that Hawke and her sister started their life in Kirkwall in poverty that he himself has never known and cannot imagine. He turns to see Varric watching her with softness in his eyes, nodding more to himself than to any of the others. Sebastian knows about the Deep Roads and the way that the Hawke family trajectory changed after that, how Varric walked by her side through the streets of Kirkwall until she had the money she needed to join his brother. To hear them speak of it, it was not easy work, but it’s there in Hawke’s voice, the conviction that she would never have gone before the Viscount or a Prince to ask for the money. Not that going before Viscount Dumar would have yielded results; the man did what he could for the city, but not for the refugees, and will serve as a cautionary tale to Sebastian. Perhaps there is something that can be done in Starkhaven, some way to help those who need it most without robbing them of their dignity or demanding years of their lives in return.

Sebastian sits forward on the throne, elbows resting on his knees, crown hanging from one hand. This is more concrete and useful advice than he’d anticipated from Isabela, having imagined that her constant requests for a party involved raiding the Keep’s wine cellar and inviting anyone she could find on the docks. He’s still not sure that isn’t part of the plan, yet at the same time he has little trouble imagining her at the helm of a ship, giving orders and hearing grievances, and he is reminded that the woman he met in Kirkwall was not Isabela at her prime. She nods understandingly towards Hawke as well, and Sebastian commits this suggestion to memory, determined to give it more thought in the near future.

“And the second day?” he asks, now genuinely interested.

“Oh, that’s the actual party.” Isabela lights up as she explains. “A ball. Fill the place with nobles in honor of your coronation, start making connections, rubbing elbows, letting them know who you are and what you can offer them. And let them make offers to you, as well. You got this far on, well, I don’t know.” She throws her hands wide. “Pure luck and the Maker’s blessing, but it won’t hold forever. So dust off your dancing shoes and get ready to wow the upper crust as well. Hang on to that list from day one and start dropping things into conversations. A man like you, you can get them to build the fountain and name it after you, I’m sure.”

Sebastian sighs, his enthusiasm ebbing again. The thought of spending the day listening to the plight of those less fortunate sounded if not appealing then at least much more like what he’s used to, rather than dealing out judgment and punishment. The idea of dressing up and spending an evening flattering and being flattered, dining and dancing and indulging others, holds far less interest for him.

“When would the ball be, then, Bela?” Bethany is leaning on a pillar off to one side, already wearing the First Enchanter’s Robes, though the role hasn’t been assigned officially. Sebastian had been relieved when there was no argument between her and Merrill about the idea; Merrill already planned to live in the alienage, and Sebastian’s suggestion that she act as liaison between himself and the elves was warmly received. 

“It should be before Goran leaves. He was well-tolerated, as I understand it.” Isabela chooses her words carefully. “You’ll want to show that he accepts you as Prince, that this is a return to the proper order and not a violent coup that should be resisted. You’ll also give him a good send off, which I think is more than fair for a man who threw himself at your feet when you arrived.”

“How do you know all this?” Merrill is watching Isabela with fascination from where she’s sitting on the steps of the dais, her staff resting on her knees, looking more out of place than any of them, with her vallaslin and carefully cut and draped robes and cloak wrapping her in green and gold. She’s barefoot, apparently unbothered by the cold floors, and looks every part an ambassador from some land that Sebastian does not understand. 

“My husband was a scheming son of a bitch, but he was very good at this sort of thing, the visuals and ceremonial junk.” She scuffs at the floor with the heel of her boot. “The difference here is that for Prince Sebastian, it’ll actually mean something, because he wants it to. It’s not just showing off.” 

Isabela makes the title sound like a backhanded compliment, but she looks at him with something like admiration. He’s not sure he’s ever seen her direct such an expression towards him before, and he doesn’t know at all what to do with it, offering a quick smile and nod before looking away. 

“It could be lovely with a real ball. I’ve never been to one, only heard about them,” Merrill coos, stretching her legs out in front of her. “Oh, what would I wear?”

Sebastian hadn’t considered that all of them would be there but of course when Merrill mentions it he realizes that that will be the case; it’s a comforting thought, even if she does raise a relevant question. None of them had formalwear in the bags they brought with them out of the city, and he’s never stopped to consider what any of them would look like dressed differently, be it Bethany in something other than Circle robes, Fenris without his sharp-edged armor, or Hawke, whom he’s never seen in anything other than armor or the tunics and leggings she wore around the manor, and now wears around the Keep. This would be an opportunity for them as well as him, to make an impression and cement themselves in their roles in the eyes of the people of Starkhaven, to make them known to the nobility, Chantry, as well as the people.

He scratches at his cheek. “We’ll have a lot of planning to do in a very short time. I don’t suppose any of you have planned something like this before?”

They all exchange glances, none of them offering anything by way of confirmation or suggestions. Even Isabela is suddenly very interested in a knot on the fringe of the sash around her hips, apparently more interested in the theoretical than the practical aspects of such an endeavor. Sebastian can’t blame her, and he’s hardly better at this himself. Her help is already more than enough. 

“Your servants will have, I’d wager,” Hawke says after a moment. “They’ve been here through at least two Princes at this point, maybe more. While I’m not sure Goran was the ball throwing type, I’m sure some of his advisers were. Starting at the bottom is rarely a bad idea, if nothing else. Orana was indispensable for me, even if the customs were different.”

“If you don’t want to be the one to ask, we can do it,” Bethany offers, and Sebastian finds himself oddly grateful for her willingness to take on these burdens for him. They should be his alone, and yet they aren’t, and he can’t help but feel that her eagerness goes beyond simply wanting a ball to attend.

“Don’t look at me. I’m good at attending parties, not planning them.” Varric closes the book in front of him with meticulous care, the ink having dried in the interim. “Trust me when I say you don’t want me there in any capacity other than a guest. That’s where I shine! You want a storyteller there to entertain the ones who don’t dance, makes them drink less.”

This is actually going to happen, almost seeming to be set in motion whether Sebastian wants it or not. The only one who hasn’t spoken out on the subject is Fenris, and even if he and Varric both abstain, they are still in the minority, with Merrill, Bethany, and Isabela on their way to becoming an unstoppable force. Sebastian glances up over his shoulder to where his Guard Captain is standing, now at ease, looking for all the world like he wants to be anywhere else.

“It’s not the display of power I would have suggested or preferred,” he mutters, meeting Sebastian’s gaze, “but I can see some merit in it. Will you be inviting Magisters?”

That’s a loaded question, but one that will need an answer. Fenris’ loyalty to him is tenuous and he knows it, and a hall full of magisters seems the perfect way to make sure that he disappears and never returns to Starkhaven again. 

“Nobles from Antiva, perhaps, and Ferelden, Nevarra, but Tevinter is yet still farther north. We traded a little with them when I was a boy--food and fabrics only,” he rushes to add when Fenris shifts his weight. “So it would perhaps not be out of line to seek out merchants to invite, but I will not have slave-traders or those who make use of them in my hall by my invitation.” Even as he adds the caveat, he considers that that will rule out almost all of Tevinter nobility. “Am I really expected to have time to have looked over every trade agreement that exists before my cousin leaves? If someone in Tevinter feels excluded, they will be welcome to make their disappointment known, and I can see if it’s worth putting to rights afterwards.” 

Fenris relaxes, seeming satisfied with the answer. Sebastian expected more resistance from him, but is not displeased to have his opinion found worthy. It will not always be so easy to navigate these waters going forward, and even with this, there is the risk of irreparable damage, but it’s a chance Sebastian is willing to take.

There are those like Seneschal Granger or perhaps even Mother Elthina, who would tell him that this is all wrong, putting so much stock in the opinions of others when he himself is the Prince, but that is not how Sebastian wants to rule. This much he decided on the path to the city. He is surrounded by smart and capable friends whose views he already finds himself considering in most other matters. Why should they not be important to him in matters of state as well? His has the last say in any decision, but no good ruler should make decisions without hearing debate first, even if it is only the matter of a ball.

He turns his attention from Fenris to the group at large. “Thank you all again. We’re done for now, if you’ve other things to attend to.”

Slowly, they filter out of the room, Bethany and Isabela with their heads together, planning menus and dresses and jewelry. Hawke pulls Merrill to her feet before she goes, sending Merrill to walk with Fenris, all her questions about balls directed at someone who might know more, but from a very different perspective than either of them will have.

That leaves Varric, who is taking what appears to be an unreasonable amount of time arranging the ink and quills on the corner of the desk.

Sebastian stands, wishing he could leave his cloak and sword on the throne until they’re needed again. It’s the only time he uses them, but the entrance is important, he’s been told, and so they will stay on until he can go to his chambers.

“Was there something else, Varric?”

He sighs, stepping away from the desk to look up at Sebastian. “You talked about Goran leaving after the ball and I’ve been thinking. It’s time for me to go, too. Back home.”

Sebastian has suspected that this was coming for some time, but he is nonetheless disappointed to hear that the decision has been made. “You know that Starkhaven welcomes you as long as you wish to stay. This could be your home as well.”

Varric is shaking his head before Sebastian has finished. “Kirkwall is my home, and I don’t want another one. It’s dirty and dangerous and probably still on fire, but I know those streets like the back of my hand, and I’ve missed it every day since we left. I have to go back. I have to do what I can.”

Sebastian nods, looking down at the carpet as he fights to school his expression and mask his disappointment before lifting his gaze to meet Varric’s. “I understand but I think, if you can spare one more night, it would be nice to have a last game of Wicked Grace before you go. For Hawke, of course,” he adds, smiling a little.

“For Hawke.” Varric nods, wrinkling his nose a little. “Sounds good, Choir Boy. Thanks.”

He lets the nickname go without protest. There is no one else to hear it, and as they have all just concluded, he is not actually the Prince yet. He watches Varric go, the sense of loss already creeping in. First Aveline, now Varric. Isabela’s return had been a welcome surprise, and she’s proven valuable in ways that he would never have anticipated, and yet he can not help but worry that this path will cost him more friendships before long. Perhaps Varric and Aveline would have returned to Kirkwall regardless; they have more purpose there, but that is not true of all of those who followed him to Starkhaven, and he hopes that he can play a role in making the city somewhere that they will want to stay. 

The doorway off to the right of the throne leads to a hallway and a narrow spiral staircase to the upper floor. From there, Sebastian makes his way to the chambers he’s taken as his own. It was a painful blow to find his childhood bedroom turned into a playroom for nieces and nephews he never met. The pain was familiar, and with it came the temptation to do something foolish, to sleep in the kitchens or take no room for himself at all, perpetuating the idea that he has no right to be here, that this is not his place. There is no one left to provoke, however, no parents to push back against or prove anything to, and so the idea burned out as quickly as it flared; he would only be punishing himself for no good reason. 

After some contemplation, he chose to take over his older brother Thomas’ room instead. Somehow it feels appropriate; the Keep still doesn’t feel like home, no matter how familiar the surroundings, but he will be Prince soon enough now, and this is where the man who would be Prince slept. It’s been a tug of war inside of him, a battle between the angry, rebellious boy he’d been and the man he wants to believe he is now, calm and purposeful, certain of himself. He will not fall prey to the pull of his past, the ghost that follows him through the halls and whispers to him to go out into the night to find trouble, find release.

There is no one to stop him now.

Except there is. It is up to Sebastian to stop himself, he thinks as he closes the door to the bedroom, shrugging off the cloak and hanging it on a hook on the back of the door. It is his responsibility, just as it has been for over fifteen years. He can not lay this at the feet of anyone else, not even the Maker and his Bride. They are always with him, in his heart, but they can only guide him. In the end, his choices are his own.

And soon he will choose for all of Starkhaven. It is a daunting idea, one that always seemed vague and distant, unnecessary to consider. His brothers were always there, prepared to step into the role, and he’d been content with that. Now, he wishes they were here to help him.

He unbuckles the belt that holds the sword from around his hips, laying it on the bed before kneeling.

“My Maker, know my heart: Judge me worthy of Your endless pride. I have done as I set out to do, and now I find myself poised to take a throne for which I was never intended. I want to help the people of my city, and ask for your guidance in this, as in all things. Grant me wisdom as you granted to my grandfather, father, and brothers in the past, and grant me strength to navigate the demons and ghosts that haunt these halls, to keep my darkness in the past and allow me to lead Starkhaven in Your light. Please watch over my friends, both near and far, when I am no longer able to protect them. Bless them, even if they do not ask for it themselves. Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	7. Budding Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment of quiet with Hawke is a rare opportunity for Sebastian, a break in the planning for his coronation and the ball to follow. Unexpected intimacy wakes memories of Kirkwall that still haunt him, leaving him unsure of his path forward with Hawke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that I really do like Anders, and his presentation in this story is a reflection of how Padi Hawke's playthrough/canon played out.

“Thank you, Seneschal. I assure you I will take your ideas, as well as your grievances, under advisement.”

Granger’s smile is tight but satisfied under his bushy moustache, and Sebastian does his best to return it, waiting until he’s turned away before dropping the facade. Seneschal Granger is one of the few whose loyalty was shown to be sound during the purging of the Keep, but occasionally Sebastian can’t help but wonder if his knowledge and experience are worth the attitude that the man has. For now, he is a necessity, however, and Sebastian can only hope to set a good example and guide him towards a path with more humility and less certainty in his own station.

He’s come, yet again, to ask about ball preparations and complain about Isabela’s suggestions. The two have been unable to agree on anything so far, which is no surprise to Sebastian, but for every time Granger disapproves, Isabela redoubles her efforts, making more and more extravagant and impossible recommendations. While their resources are considerable, at this point it’s also become a matter of time constraints as well - the ball is days away. There is simply no time to import sand from the Anderfels to make the wine glasses with, which Sebastian knows that Isabela knows, but clearly that hadn’t stopped her from writing a note to Granger with the idea. Her sly smile is tangible in the loops of her handwriting.

Sebastian crumples that same note in his hand as he walks away, promising himself that he will bring this up with Isabela as soon as he sees her again. He understands the fun she derives from these games and cannot deny that some of them have been genuinely amusing and a pleasant distraction from the actual planning being done, but he has more important things to do than calm the Seneschal, who is unable to calm himself, unaware of the way his fretting can infect others. There is nothing they can do about the weather other than hope and ask the Maker to provide, and yet Granger worries there will be rain, just as he worries that deliveries will fail to arrive and that all of the staff will be ill on the day and unable to work. While Sebastian is glad to see everything being taken seriously, he’s also woken up in the night twice this week after dreaming of undercooked food and his crown melting in the rain. 

He shakes his head to clear away the thoughts as he makes his way through the Keep. It was a surprise both jarring and pleasant to find how little had changed since he’d been there last; the same tapestries hang on the familiar striped stone walls, the same carpets and statues line the hallways as in Sebastian’s youth, many of them evoking memories he hasn’t thought of in years. A bronze statue of a regal cat stands at the end of the hallway on a marble base. It was a loyal companion once, the brazier on the wall beside it creating deep shadows to hide in, and the statue never asked where he was going or when he would be back, and he pauses in front of it, running his hand over the polished head of the beast before continuing.

His path on the way to the kitchens leads him along an open upper floor, and he pauses at the sound of voices, looking up from the ruined paper in his fist. Bethany and Hawke are standing together, heads bent in conversation. Hawke is dressed in dark leggings and an undyed linen tunic with a sash around her waist, her hair gathered in a ponytail that falls over one shoulder. They’re both smiling, and it lightens his heart to see it. Bethany has been eager to help with what details she can for the ball and coronation, sampling wines and choosing fabrics, while Hawke has seemed content to hang back and let others decide, much like Sebastian himself. He doesn’t want to interrupt, but it appears to happen all the same, Hawke’s mouth snapping closed when she sees him and color rising to her cheeks as she meets his eyes and quickly looks away. 

Bethany’s grin is sharp when she leans in to give her a peck on the cheek. “Okay, Puddle, I’ll talk to you later.” She gives Sebastian a meaningful look as she passes him, heading down the staircase until she disappears beneath the first turn. Sebastian glances after her, then turns to Hawke again to find her looking him over with a soft smile that banishes any unease about having disturbed them. 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says as he takes a step towards her, “but I have to ask. Hawke, did she say ‘Puddle’?” He doesn’t mean to laugh, doesn’t want to, but for as long as he’s known her she’s been Hawke, or Padi, more so lately. Varric has nicknames for everyone, but this isn’t one of his, Sebastian knows without asking. Varric’s names come from his assessment of a person, and Sebastian came to accept his as fact shortly after he heard it the first time. More than once he’d considered thanking Varric for choosing something that highlighted his voice, but there was a danger that Varric would realize his nickname didn’t push any buttons and would then pick something new and worse. With these criteria in mind, he can’t imagine that Varric would decide on Puddle as a name for Hawke. He’s only ever heard him call her Angel, a beautiful and fitting name in Sebastian’s opinion, even if he’s heard her balk at it herself. It calls to mind someone who helps, who answers prayers of all sorts, be they for protection, assistance, or even vengeance. 

Hawke looks over at him and nods, smiling and shrugging her brows. The upper floor looks down onto one of the entrances to the Keep, with a staircase that lines up with the door and a low railing framed by heavy velvet curtains. She turns and leans down against the railing, her elbows resting on the wood as she looks out over the entryway. “She did. It’s-- Wait.” She lifts her head and turns to look at him, one eyebrow raised over narrowed eyes. “First you have to promise that what I’m going to tell you will stay a secret.”

He bends down to mirror her pose, close enough that their shoulders bump against each other. It’s casual, friendly contact, but the press of her arm against his sends tingles up along his back and down to his fingers all the same, leaving him flexing his fingers to disperse the sensation. “What?” He raises his own brow as he looks back at her, curious at her unexpected shyness. “Why? What can be so--”

“Promise. Secret.” She sets a finger to his lips to keep him from protesting, eyebrows arching as she waits for his answer. This must be some story.

It’s Sebastian’s turn to blush, and he tries to cross his eyes to get a better look at her hand, to see if it will make her laugh. It does, and he smiles against her finger, drawing a breath at the way the contact sends a shiver through him. He nods in agreement with her terms, fighting to keep himself from enjoying the way his lip drags against her skin. It’s almost too much, but it would be stranger, perhaps, for him to pull away from it, to try to explain the way that he loses focus at her touch, how it seems amplified until he can concentrate on little else.

“I promise,” he replies when she takes her hand away. His tongue flicks out over his lower lip, but there is no trace of her touch left here. 

“Okay, then. Thank you.” She smiles as she sighs, then straightens as she prepares to explain, turning to face him with her hip resting against the balustrade. He has to crane his neck to look up at her, and so he pushes up to rest his hands on the railing instead. “It’s a nickname from when we were all kids. Bethany and Carver - especially Bethany - couldn’t say my full name properly when they were babies. Mother thought it was awful; she was worried they’d never learn to speak correctly, even though it was only just the one word, my name, that she struggled with, and then Carver picked it up from her, but he was doing it on purpose.” She pauses and the bright edges of her smile soften, the lines at the corners of her eyes smooth. “Our father loved it, though. Even he started calling me Puddle after a while, though Mother never did.”

Her gaze is far from here as she talks about it, eyes never landing anywhere for long -- the chandelier in front of them, the roof above, the door across the room. She shifts her weight, but doesn’t seem uncomfortable talking about it. There is a softness to her voice as if she wants to be careful with the memories lest she damage them by lifting them up from the safe place she keeps them in her heart. It’s a feeling Sebastian recognizes, though he’s had few opportunities to savor it himself. It’s rare he speaks of the kinder memories he has of his brothers and parents.

Sebastian watches her as she talks, savoring the warmth that wells in him to hear her speak so fondly of the family she’s lost. The story is less spectacular than he imagined, but in place of that is an intimacy that he is unprepared for. It’s clear that few people know about this, and it brings him into a sphere he’s not sure he occupied before. “So Padi became Puddle, then?” He muses, not wanting to sound too entertained, but only to express his appreciation for the memory, for being allowed to know this new thing about her. “That’s rather sweet, that she still calls you that.”

“Apadiel.” Her voice is so low that he almost doesn’t hear her, and he leans in closer, looking up at her where her hair has fallen down around her face. “My full given name is Apadiel,” Hawke explains, lifting her chin and tossing her head to move her hair so that she can meet his gaze. Her smile fades, replaced by something a little sadder and less confident. “That’s where Puddle comes from.”

“It’s beautiful.” His response is immediate, and without thinking, he reaches out to brush her hair out of her face, back behind her ear. He wants to look at her in the light of this new information, and his fingers drift along her jawline to her chin. He tilts her head up gently and she allows it, following his gaze and smiling, color spreading on her cheeks.

Hawke is the archer who took down a company of mercenaries in exchange for coin because she saw a note on the Chanter’s Board. Hawke brought him the justice the Chantry told him he was wrong to want.

Padi Hawke is the Champion of Kirkwall, staring down Templars and blood mages alike, fighting through the city to restore peace. Padi Hawke is the one he cares so deeply for and would walk through fire to protect.

Apadiel Hawke is the woman before him now, watching him with wide, green eyes, sharing childhood secrets with him. She is all of these things and more; she is the woman he could see by his side for the rest of his life, if she feels the same.

“It’s a beautiful name,” he repeats, “for a beautiful woman. You should use it more often.”

“Sebastian.” She sighs, exasperated, but there’s a nervous laugh in it, and she’s grinning as she rolls her eyes up and away from him. “My nickname growing up was Puddle. You really think I want to associate with that? Besides, it just sounds pretentious. It doesn’t feel like me anymore.”

She brings her hand up to tuck the same uncooperative strands behind her ear again, sweeping her hair over her shoulder and out of her face. His fingertips still rest under her chin where he lifted her head, and she brushes against them with every little movement, but there’s no reason for him to keep touching her now. He curls his fingers into his palm as he lowers his hand, as if he can hold the memory of the softness of her skin and in his closed fist.

“Does it mean anything?” He asks gingerly, still watching her. “Your name. I’ve never heard anything like it.” He wants to keep her talking, to stay in this place she’s opened to him, but her past can be difficult to navigate. More than once she’s shut down when answering questions from the others about her time in Ferelden, her father or any of the others she’s lost. 

“Does Sebastian mean anything?” It’s almost a relief when she fires back with a smirk and there’s no heat in the reply, only the warm sort of sarcasm that she uses to tease those close to her. He’s pleased to find it aimed at him, and when she grins his eyes flick down to her mouth. 

“It means ‘revered’.” He laughs to himself, spreading his hands and shaking his head. His parents had no idea how poor a fit it would be when they chose it, and it’s rare he even thinks about it. There are much heavier mantles he’s been given in his life. “Obviously, I try not to set too much stock in it these days,” he continues, glancing away as if she’s been able to read in his eyes the way that he used to say it in taverns and whisper it in the ears of maidens. 

Hawke nods, discreet and thoughtful as she listens. “In the presence of the Maker,” she offers after a pause. She lifts her chin, reciting like a student, her gaze distant again. “Apadiel. It means ‘in the presence of the Maker’ in some old language no one speaks anymore.” She chuckles and shakes her head. “Can you imagine, me, in the presence of the Maker?”

“Yes,” he whispers as she straightens to stand, stretching her arms above her head. She makes a sound as she knits her fingers together and so she doesn’t hear, and it’s just as well. She wouldn’t agree with him, but that doesn’t change his opinion. Any Maker worth believing in would find her worthy of His blessing, Sebastian is sure of it.

“I stopped using it when I could decide for myself,” she sighs, closing her eyes as she lets her head fall back. “I got Bethany and Carver to start saying Padi instead, and it stuck, and I liked it better. Quicker to say. And it broke the pattern.”

“What pattern?” Sebastian blinks slowly, unable to come up with a more articulate question as his eyes follow the curves of her sides when she stretches. He swallows and runs a hand over his face, glad to see that her eyes were closed so that his lingering gaze went unnoticed. She is so much more than beautiful, but it would be wrong to deny that the Maker has drawn the lines of her body with smoothness and grace. He asks that same Maker for forgiveness for his weakness as Hawke starts to explain again. 

“Mother always said they never intended it, and I suppose I believe her, but-- Apadiel. Bethany and Carver, even if he was older.” She counts off on her fingers. “We always joked that we’d have to name the next Mabari something that started with a D.”

They both laugh at that, and he’s glad to see her so happy. He hoped that coming to Starkhaven would give them all a sense of security, and perhaps this is a sign that she is starting to settle in now. He wants that for her. For all of them, of course, but she is special to him. He will not deny that to himself any longer. She need not feel the same; he can scarcely imagine that she could care for him that way, but after years of siding with the Chantry, after the cruel ultimatum he issued, she is still here in Starkhaven with him, laughing and sharing secrets. Sebastian must learn to let that be enough and not hope for more.

“May I call you Apadiel?” He asks as he shifts to lean back against the balustrade, turning to look at her. It’s no small question, and he tries to give it the weight it ought to have when he says it, but he can’t keep himself from smiling when he says her name. 

She regards him for a moment, deciding, and he feels his worth being weighed. He will respect it if she tells him no; that’s part of keeping the secret, he thinks. She gets to set the rules for it. He can not deny that it would mean a great deal to him, to have this between them, even if he can’t explain to her why. It would be one more step into this space that he suddenly occupies in her world, where he is allowed to know these things about her and share in them. 

“Yes,” she replies, giving a little nod. “But only when no one else will hear - especially Varric,” she adds sharply. “I don’t want it turning up in that book of his.”

Sebastian rests a hand on his chest and tilts his chin down, but the gravity of the gesture is only somewhat teasing. He would not betray her confidence with this, and his lowered head gives him a moment to school his expression so that perhaps she won’t see his delight at being given permission, like a key to a room no one else has. “On my honor. If it’s there, it will not be from me.”

She points at him, her finger close to his face when he lifts his eyes again. “And never ‘Puddle’.”

“No, of course not.” He wraps his hand around her wrist, his thumb resting on her palm as he lowers her hand, pulling her closer as he does so, stepping into her space. “Only Apadiel.”

Her skin is warm, and he can feel her pulse under his fingertips, or maybe it’s his own, fluttering and reckless, threatening to take control of him. Her fingers brush on the back of his thumb and the same sparks follow them as when she held her finger to his lips. He’s never been so overwhelmed by such simple touches before, and while he wants to tell himself that that would be enough, to feel her touch and touch her in return, there is a darkness that stirs within him, and it wants more.

“Yes, Prince Sebastian.” She’s barely whispering, the words little more than breath on his cheek, but she’s smiling as she says them. He turns his head and she’s there, looking at him through her lashes, her cheeks flushed and lips parted, nothing but warm breaths between them. She is so very close, and in the heat of it something inside of him is softening. Sebastian can’t tell if it’s the crumbling of a wall or the weakening of a foundation. 

He can allow neither. 

“I’m sorry, Hawke. Please, forgive me.” He holds her hand for as long as he can as he steps back. “I have to go.” His gaze stays locked on hers, and he can only watch as her expression falls from blushing expectation to confusion, her brows rising and her mouth falling open wordlessly. 

Sebastian’s pulse pounds on his ears as he strides away from her, directionless as he moves from doorway to doorway, seeking only to put space between himself and Hawke. A part of his mind is promising him that what he needs will be in the chapel, but he can’t bring himself to go there. He is too distracted to seek forgiveness; he can not go before Andraste in such a state. His chambers pose an entirely different set of dangers, especially if she makes a move to follow him. 

It is too warm. He is too warm, can’t think with this flush on his skin. At the end of the hall he climbs the stairs, one hand always on the inner wall of the spiral staircase for balance. He shoulders open the heavy wooden door at the top and breathes in a blast of cold air as he steps out onto the ramparts.

He closes his eyes against the bright midday sun, scrubbing a hand over his face, and pulling in deep breaths through his nose. It is not panic he feels - in fact, he finds an unexpected sort of calm when he finally gives himself a moment to reflect. Perhaps this was bound to happen, and now that it has, he can focus on putting it behind him. If there is fear, it is at the idea of explaining to Hawke why he was forced to walk away. 

He rests his elbows on a gap in the battlement and folds his hands together, lowering his head. First, he seeks to clear his mind; the calm he feels is real but superficial, with confusion and concern and shame swirling as currents beneath. Prayer offered in the eye of an emotional storm is not sincere. Sebastian must regain control of himself before he can offer himself to anyone else.

“These truths the Maker has revealed to me,” he begins. “As there is but one world, one life, one death, there is but one god, and He is our Maker.”

The words come naturally to him, pulled from within his body and collecting in his heart before he speaks them aloud, and they carry his turbulence with them as they leave his lips. The verse is comfortable in its familiarity, and he uses the rhythm to control his breathing, even imagines that it slows the beating of his heart. 

Wanting Hawke has been a constant in his life for some time now. It started long before they left Kirkwall, when he became one of those she so readily called on to join in her adventures. He was happy that she had Anders in her life; someone as bright and good as Hawke deserves love, and to not spend her days and nights alone, but he found his thoughts drifting to her more and more as they spent time together. At first he believed it was friendship and nothing more; Sebastian counted few people as true friends, and none of them as radiant as Hawke, so it seemed obvious that she would linger in his mind. 

Soon enough, however, he’d come to understand that his longing for her companionship was something more, and it unsettled him. In all his time in Starkhaven as a boy, he sought connection to others, but never felt such a pull to a specific person as he did with Hawke. It became more difficult to watch her with Anders, not least as the mage’s behavior turned harsher and more erratic, his obsession with justice for mages pushing everything else out of his vision, even Hawke. Sebastian tried to be a friend to her in those times, to care for her selflessly even as he felt selfish with every stolen glance and moment spent together without Anders in their group. He knew then what he still knows now; he cannot be everything that Hawke needs, nor can he be everything that she would desire of a partner. It would be unfair to her to start them on a path together when he cannot go with her to the end of it, and unfair to think that she could want anything other than friendship from him to begin with.

A vow of chastity is easy to make when one’s life is hollow and in pieces at one’s feet. He promised himself to Andraste without hesitation, in part because he never anticipated that anyone would appear that could make him reconsider his vow, and for years he was content within the Chantry as he rebuilt himself into the man he is today. The vows he took are pillars upon which so much of him rests, and to walk away from those would be to wade into darkness again, a place to which he vowed to himself that he would never return.

And what right has he to presume to take such a place in her life at all? He is not so naive as to pretend that what happened by the balustrade was entirely on his side, but Hawke needs time to heal, to mourn and find herself again. Sebastian is the cause of so much of the pain that she is in; he recalls too well that first night in Starkhaven, and even in her rage, she wept to have lost Anders. Not just a loss, either; her lover died at her own hand because Sebastian was too blinded by order to consider doing what must be done himself. His desire to have Hawke at his side and have a place in her heart is selfish, just as his demand had been that she kill the man she loved. 

“All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands.” The words come more slowly as his mind turns on itself, chastising him for his covetousness, his pride to think that he has any right to Hawke’s affection after all he’s put her though. “And from the lowest slaves to the highest kings. Those who bring harm--”

“-- Without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker.” Hawke’s voice joins his for the end of the stanza and his concentration disappears again, carried off as if by the breeze that moves around him. He sighs, letting his head fall forward to rest on his hands. He is nowhere close to prepared to face her again, but he can’t run, and jumping from the ramparts is perhaps too rash a decision. With nowhere else to go, he can at least hide his face for a moment.

“I noticed you skipped the part about maleficar,” she continues, her tone cautious and her voice coming from some distance. He senses her rather than sees her, listening to her steps as she approaches and leans her back against the wall beside where he is resting. He moves his hands to press their heels to his eyes until stars dance in his vision.

“It didn’t feel appropriate,” he mumbles, rolling his shoulders. He had hoped to be alone for longer so he could settle his thoughts before seeing her again. Shame and remorse settle in his joints until he’s somehow stiff and weak at once, resting more of his weight against the stone to keep his legs from giving out beneath him.

“Are you secretly a mage?” The lightness in her voice is forced, the sort of tone she used with guards who were being particularly dense. “I’m not secretly a mage. At least I don’t think I am.”

“Hawke.” It comes out heavier than he means it to, and he immediately regrets it, in the way that she goes quieter than simply not talking. He doesn’t have to look to see her downcast eyes, the way she’s rolling her ankle where she’s crossed them. Her sadness has a way of stilling even the air around her. It runs so much deeper than she ever wants anyone to know, and now he’s the cause of it. Again.

“Why are you out here?” He sighs, lifting his head enough to turn and look at her. He doesn’t ask as an accusation, and he scolds himself at the hope that finds its way into his voice. He wants her here, wants her close, but it is too much to ask for.

Her head falls back against the wall and she rolls it to the side to meet his eyes. “We were having a pretty nice moment in there before you left.” She smiles, but it fades as fast as it appears, and her eyes are wide and uncertain as they move over his face, searching for an explanation he doesn’t know how to give her.

“I am sorry, Hawke.” Sebastian puts weight behind every word, looking up at her with furrowed brows. “I should not have-- I had no right.”

“I think I have a say in that, don’t I?” Hawke regards him coolly, with a spark of something like anger in her eyes. It’s unexpected, but Sebastian steels himself. He will take whatever frustration she has with him. He can do no less.

He frowns, his throat tightening as he thinks back of all that he’s put her through, all that she’s done in his name. His hands falls to his sides again, and he shakes his head. There are so many reasons that he needed to retreat from her, all of them based in his own weakness. He does not question her ability to decide for herself, only his ability to present an honest version of himself to her, one that is marked with his flaws and painted to remind her of the pain he’s caused her.

Sebastian sighs, shaking his head again. “Of course you do. I don’t mean to take that from you, either, but I don’t think you--”

“Do you not trust me?” She asks, sounding as if she already knows the answer. “To decide what I want, who I want.”

Her question hits between his ribs with such force that he all but sways on the spot, bringing a hand up to the side of his chest as if he could find a wound there. He swallows hard and balls his other hand into a fist at his side to keep himself from reaching out to her. He can not be sure that his touch would be wanted, that his intention would be understood if he pulled her close.

Sebastian considers her question. Perhaps he is wrong, perhaps he gives her too little credit. Hawke has always proven herself to be a capable leader, able to care for and protect others, but often at the risk of her own body, and her own heart. He seeks to protect her from that, certain that his vows will leave her disappointed and neglected if she should try to make a life with him. And beyond this, his mind cannot reconcile the idea that she could still want him in the face of what he has put her through, the ultimatum he laid on her shoulders.

“Hawke, I trust you with my life. Wherever I’ve followed you, you’ve always led me to safety, led all of us. I am the one who is faltering, and it’s nothing to do with you.”

He wants this to be the whole truth. He does trust her, as much as he trusted his family because that is what she’s become to him. Within that, however, is a lingering fear, and while he tells himself that it is unfair to judge her as he’d judged his parents, he can not help that the thought returns to him, that sooner or later he will disappoint her, and he will lose her. There is truth in it when he thinks that it’s too soon because of Anders and the way that he died, but Sebastian cannot be sure that he will ever feel ready. To give in to his desire to have her also means risking losing her, and already he knows that that would ruin him. 

Hawke deserves someone who can be fearless in their affection for her, and Sebastian is not that man. He wants to be, and can only hope that someday he will get there, but the thought of kissing her and holding her close turns the stone under him to loose sand, and he cannot allow himself to slide, lest he should fall back into darkness. To do so would be to fail not only himself, but Hawke as well, and Andraste, Elthina. So many have helped him to become the better man he is today, and he would not see himself fail them all by sliding back into darkness, even if it means that he must pull away from Hawke. She deserves someone who will always put her first, and he has already failed at that.

“From where I see it, the only mistake you’ve made so far is still easily corrected,” she replies, and the way her tone softens with him presses on his chest until he aches. “I know this is new for both of us, but--”

“I have no right to your heart, Hawke.” His throat tightens when he says it, and he lowers his eyes. “After all I’ve demanded of you--”

“Wait, is this about _Anders_?” She follows his interruption with one of her own, and he flinches at the surprise in her voice. 

Slowly he looks up at her again to meet the confusion and frustration in her eyes. He would do what he can to put all of that at ease, even if it means pushing her away. More than anything, he doesn’t want to see her hurt. “I forced you to kill the man you loved.” It pains him to say it aloud, like he’s pleading for her to see what’s so clear to him about himself. “How can I ask anything of you after that?”

Hawke widens her eyes, and she turns her back to him, shaking her head and pushing a breath out through her nose. She folds her arms across her chest and takes a step away. Sebastian stays where he is, prepared for her to leave, when she turns again. His heart moves in his chest with each step she takes towards or away from him, and he does nothing to fight it. 

“Is that really what you think happened in Kirkwall? You think I did that because you told me to?” There’s fire in her eyes, surprise and anger that he doesn’t want to defend himself against, even as he shrinks under her gaze. He nods, and she presses her lips together in a thin line.

“I killed a man, but he was not the man I loved.” She sighs, and some of the fire within her goes out. When she speaks again, she is more composed, her voice even, almost patient as she explains to him. “The Anders I loved was gone long before that day. He told me he was making a potion that would separate him from the spirit, and I believed him. I helped him, but nothing happened, and when I asked, he admitted he’d lied, manipulated me to keep me from trying to find out what he was doing. And he wouldn’t tell me what I’d done, what he’d made, why he needed me to distract Elthina.” She’s pulled in on herself, arms wrapped around her body and gaze lowered, but now her head snaps up, and she looks at him with angled brows and shining eyes. “I’m so sorry, Sebastian. I swear I had no idea what he was doing. I would never have let him if I’d known.”

Sebastian strikes the stone wall with the side of his fist and she stops, shying away from him. He’s never seen her this way before, frightened, and of him no less. It hurts more than the cold stone against his hand, to think that she could be afraid of him, and to think that she should believe she has anything to apologize for in this. 

“I’m sorry, Hawke, I-- I miss her, and he should never have put you in that position,” he snarls, stopping himself too late. He runs a hand over his face and back through his hair. “Please, continue, I apologize, please.”

She looks up at him with uncertainty, but starts again. “He stopped sleeping. The-- Justice, he said his body was resting, but he couldn’t, how did he put it, ‘stay in the same room as someone who refused to act’. So I slept alone, and he stood by the railing, or wrote, or I don’t know what else, I really don’t know. I didn’t know.” 

The words are pulled from her, and Sebastian laments to see it. Now, with some distance, Sebastian can acknowledge to himself that there were some parts of Anders that were good, that wanted to help the world, but as Hawke describes her time with him, Sebastian grows frustrated, that a man could have such a woman for his own and spoil it, and that Sebastian himself failed for so long to see it and intervene on her behalf, fearing the selfishness of his own motives.

“And we fought,” Hawke continues. “I tried to get him to talk to me, to let me help, but he said I didn’t trust him, that if I loved him, I should stop asking questions.  _ If _ I loved him, as if all of a sudden I had to prove it.”

She rubs at her knuckles with her thumb where she stands holding her hands. Sebastian’s hand twitches at his side, wanting to reach out to touch her and stop her, to offer comfort and try to banish some of her sadness. She is retreating before his eyes, back to the lonely place she’d occupied on their march from Kirkwall, and he remembers the words she’d spoken at the inn that first night in Starkhaven.

_It’s terrifying, to be told you don’t love someone while they hold your heart in their hand and squeeze._

“You warned me about him, the last time we talked in the Chantry.” She starts again after a moment’s quiet, her eyes focused when she looks at him. “You wanted me to be Viscount, and you told me to be careful, that he was dangerous. I wanted so badly to be angry with you.” She rolls her eyes up and away and shakes her head. There is no mirth in the laugh she barks out. “I didn’t know how to tell you that I knew you were right, and there was nothing I could do about it. I was lonely, worried, and a Prince - a real Prince! - was more concerned for me than the man I loved. You were so kind.” She reaches out to cup his cheek and Sebastian freezes, unsure how to respond to her sudden warmth. “You remember your anger after the explosion. They all remember your anger. Do you know what I remember? I remember how you asked me what I would’ve done if you were in that Chantry.”

“I should never have said that, it was unfair.” He shakes his head, but only slightly, not wanting to leave her touch. “I wasn’t in the Chantry.”

“No, don’t you see? I needed that fear.” She sighs, takes her hand away. “My hand held the knife. No one else forced me to do it. My Anders was never coming back, and if he ever existed at all then I wanted him to find peace, to be free. I needed to be free. I would never have stopped being afraid of him. But you? If he’d taken you from me, I don’t know if I’d have had the strength to keep fighting. Do you really think that he was the only one in my heart, Sebastian?”

He has no answer for her, or at least none that would make her happy. He has never known a heart like hers, with room for whole cities. Yes, he had hoped that he held some place there, but at the same time he feared the thought that some ember burned in a place where he could never help it to become a flame. To hear this from her, now, and to think that such a possibility could exist leaves him momentarily speechless, and he can only look at her, helpless as his chest heaves.

“I never knew,” he whispers. His heart is breaking, and yet feels stronger than ever within him. “I didn’t think it could be possible.”

Sebastian frowns, and Hawke’s head tilts to the side when she sees it. “I wish I’d done more for you in Kirkwall,” he continues, “but I thought it would seem so obvious, as if I was trying to come between the two of you.”

Hawke shakes her head and sighs. She seems calmer now, and Sebastian is glad to see it. 

“I heard you.” Sebastian has to look to make sure he really hears her speak, and when he meets her gaze she looks away quickly. “That first night, when you sat with me, you took care of me. You did have more in Kirkwall than you thought. I--” 

There’s a gasp, and they both turn to see Merrill standing in the doorway looking back and forth at them.

“Am I interrupting? I was looking for Hawke, we’re supposed to go down to the alienage today, and I…” The sentence dies as she decides the answer to her own question about the interruption, watching Hawke and Sebastian hastily pull away from each other.

“I’ll be right there, Merrill!” The brightness in Hawke’s voice is feigned, but it’s enough to appease Merrill where she hovers in the doorway.

Hawke looks at him again, holds his gaze a moment, then looks away, as if seeking the answer to a question and finding it. “I hope we can talk more about this soon, Sebastian.” She catches one of his hands with her own and squeezes one of his fingers before taking a step back from him. She walks backwards almost until she’s reached the door, holding his gaze and smiling softly before turning to Merrill and following her out through the door.

Sebastian gives himself a moment alone on the ramparts after she disappears through the door. His own heart and mind have stilled now and are better aligned, more in agreement about Hawke. It’s a heady feeling, and the Keep all but rolls beneath his feet when he turns to look out over the city. The first tender buds of hope spring up within him, and while he will not tend them too closely, he is no longer ready to tear them out at the root and salt the earth they came from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	8. Heavy Head, Lighter Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After all his years away, and the quiet insurrection upon his return, Sebastian is finally crowned Prince of Starkhaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to [the upper shelf on tumblr](http://the-upper-shelf.tumblr.com) for this amazing art! It's beautiful, and I'm so glad to share it!!
> 
> Sebastian's oath in this chapter is adapted from [the Queen's Coronation Oath found here](https://www.royal.uk/coronation-oath-2-june-1953).

Sebastian rubs the fabric between his fingers, a creamy golden silk so lightweight and soft as to seem fragile, but he recalls from experience how durable it can be. Though the shirt is creased from years sitting folded in a drawer, the lines will fall out easily enough. He’s not sure about the color; it’s clearly more suited to Thomas, whose hair was lighter and redder. After a moment’s consideration, he turns and tosses it onto the pile on the bed, combing his fingers back through his hair afterwards. Their mother often joked that she ran out of red by the time he’d been born, and of the three of them, he was the most who looked like their father, but in golden late afternoon light even he can appear to have some of that same fire.

He turns back to the carefully folded shirts in the chest of drawers, not for the first time wondering if their contents were left alone out of respect or shame on the part of those who had a hand in Thomas’ murder. Returning to the Keep found Sebastian facing dilemmas that he did not anticipate and reacting in ways he did not expect. It started the first night with the simple matter of where he would sleep. Starkhaven Keep is the home of his youth, but the thought of going into his old bedroom left him frozen in the hallway, unable to will himself to open the door. He’d returned to it later, bitterly disappointed but also somehow relieved to find that the room was emptied and refurbished for his nieces and nephews. Through his wandering the halls and helping the others find rooms to sleep in and perhaps later call their own, he found himself standing outside what once was his oldest brother’s bedroom. It was a stark and gruesome sensation, finding comfort in the knowledge that this is not where his brother died. Even if his mind conjured images of long-dried blood on carpet and stone, he found little more than dust when he opened the door. After that, settling in was easier. 

Goran took one of the guest bedrooms, opting for somewhere small and simple, explaining that he was disinterested in the opulence of the family’s quarters. Bartholomew’s bedroom had been stripped and emptied, nothing but bare stone and wood left when he opened the door, and Sebastian was reminded how his brother preferred to take his supper earlier in the day, not joining his parents and brothers, their wives and children. The dining hall where the rest of the family would have been gathered had been cleared of any evidence of what happened there, with furniture and tapestries that Sebastian did not recognize. The sight turned his stomach nonetheless, leaving him to take most of his meals in the kitchen since then.

Despite this, it surprised him to find how much in the Keep was still undisturbed, even with the passage of years and installment of his cousin on the throne. Goran’s family apparently sent him on his own, not moving in with him, so many rooms stood untouched since the death of their former occupants. Thomas’ bedroom is of the variety that Goran wished to avoid: large and well-appointed, with high, narrow windows framed by heavy curtains and a four-poster bed against one wall, also this with drapes, though Sebastian has no interest in closing them. He’s done little at all to change the room since moving in, unwilling to claim the space as his own, as if the former occupant might return at any moment. 

His cousin pointed out earlier in the day, however, that it could soon be considered The Prince’s Bedroom, what with Sebastian’s impending coronation tomorrow. The thought stayed with him, and though it’s now late, he is finally roused to action to take over the room. Though he will wear none of these clothes for his ceremony and the ball that comes after, there is something soothing about sorting them, a ritual in its own way that allows him to touch and consider things that were important to someone who was once so important to him.

The robes that Sebastian wore in the Chanty were comfortable, practical garb. They were warm, sometimes to a fault, but they softened with years of wear and held up well. It’s been years since he’s had the opportunity to choose so freely with what he wants to wear, and his instinct, time and again, is to seek out rougher spun cottons and wools among Thomas’ things. The golden silk was a surprise when his fingers brushed against it, and now as he continues his search, he seeks out more of the same, though in other shades. The uniform he will wear tomorrow - stiff and heavy, in the deep red and black of the city’s heraldry - hangs on the outside door of the chest, waiting its turn for his attentions.

Someone coughs and Sebastian turns, an intricately embroidered green satin shirt still in his hands. The sight of Hawke lingering in the doorway to his bedroom takes his breath away, the pale, cold moonlight through the windows clinging to her, making her seem to glow. She is wearing a long blue-grey knit tunic, the neck left unlaced so that it hangs off her shoulder, and she’s barefoot, likely on her way to bed herself. The last days before the coronation have been relentless in their demands on his time, and they’ve seen little of each other since their conversation on the ramparts. Hope stirs in him that perhaps she wants to continue the discussion, even if he is still unsure what to say, how to go about explaining how he feels about her, and the boundaries that he must set for them.

“Sebastian.” She lowers her eyes as she steps over the threshold, fingers curling into loose fists at her side before relaxing again. “I’ve been thinking, and please understand, this is not to say that the people won’t love you. They will, but I thought you might need someone to represent you, someone that you can send to do things that you wouldn’t, to act in your place. A--”

“A Champion,” he fills in, grinning when she nods, lips pressed together to bite down her own smile. 

“Yes, I suppose that’s it.” Her eyes cut to the side, then she looks at him, more confident now. “I could be your Champion.”

He glances away from her only long enough to drop the shirt back into the drawer, chastising himself for the stab of disappointment that comes with her words. This is still a conversation about their future, and one in which Hawke wants to act in his stead, to be for him what she was for a whole city. It is more practical than romantic, to be sure, but at the same time it is a guarantee that she wants to stay in Starkhaven, that she supports his taking the throne and wants to work at his side. He cannot bring himself to be bitter over such generous offer, and it means there will be time to discuss the other things in the future.

She doesn’t look hopeful, but she does look certain when he meets her eyes again, and he wonders how long she’s had this idea in mind. The offer is flattering, and the thought of having her as his right hand is tempting. She would do well, and it would be all too easy to accept and let her continue on as she had in Kirkwall, but now with a royal blessing and the protection of the Prince. He trusts her, and would trust her in this as well, to act with his authority and do that which he cannot. 

That it would be easy does not make it the right choice, however. Hawke fought for her life in Kirkwall, for her way of life, to help others and to try to save the city she called home. She did what others would not, even when they had the authority and the ability. From tomorrow, Sebastian will be the authority, and he will not allow her to keep wearing herself down and giving parts of herself away in his name. The Chantry, the Viscount, even the Circle and the Templars: All of them saw fit to use her without thinking to protect her, and he will not see his name added to such a list.

“No, Hawke.” He shakes his head as he steps towards her, not frowning, but looking at her with soft concern. “You flatter me with the offer, but your time of serving others is over, if I have anything to say about it. I didn’t bring you here to do this for me, and I would not ask it of you.”

“You didn’t ask,” she replies, indignance slipping into her voice. “I’m offering.”

“And I am saying that I don’t want you to.” He weighs the words as he speaks him, doing what he can to make sure his meaning is unmistakable. “If anything, allow me to serve you, as Prince. This is what I wanted when I brought you all here, that I could offer you safety and give you a place where you can make a home.”

He is prepared for her to argue, and surprised when she softens, nodding, her gaze turned inward. “I don’t know what my role in all this is supposed to be,” she mutters, one shoulder lifting and dropping in a shrug. “There’s a place for Fenris, Bethany, Merrill. I can stand in the throne room as scenery when you need it, but is that really all you want from me?” She folds her arms across her chest and looks at him, expectant but with her earlier determination dampened again.

Sebastian sighs, unsure how to answer her question. The roles the others took on all seemed like natural next steps for each of them, but if that’s the case then Hawke’s suggestion should also be what he wants for her. Her suggestion that she stand guard in the throne room seemed bold at the time, putting her on display as a sign of the power Sebastian could wield, and he’d accepted it with the consideration that she would never need to spring to action. He can’t imagine a life for her where she never again holds a bow in her hands, but as he looks at her, he recalls the night they arrived in Starkhaven, all her pain and loss on display. He won’t be the one to put her in a position to add to that, and he will protect her from it if he can.

“What I want from you is for you to be happy, for you to heal.” He holds up a hand when she starts to protest. “I mean more than just your scar, Hawke. The things that you’ve been through, the life you’ve led; you need time to heal from that, more than a few weeks. I understand your offer, I do, and I don’t refuse it because I think you’d do poorly. I would be proud to have you as my Champion, but I want you to be sure it’s what you want first. You’ve lived so long without any balance or security, or time for yourself.” He takes another step towards her, searching her face for a sign that she understands. “I want you to have that, and to use it to figure out what you want to do.”

He watches her as he waits for her reply, thinking over his words. Hawke can go forward with a stubborn single-mindedness that by turns amazed and worried him when they were in Kirkwall. There is no need for her to run on instinct here, and he wants her to see that. There is no need for her to make a decision quickly, or ever for his part. If she is content to stay in the Keep with him, then he would ask no more of her than that. 

After a moment she nods, slowly at first, then firmer. “I think I understand, and thank you, I suppose. It just seemed like the easiest thing, to keep being a Champion. I’m not sure I know how to be anything else.”

Her words make him flinch. Hawke can be anything she wants, he’s sure of it, but Kirkwall offered little room for her to try her hand at anything other than survival. “Take your time and see,” he suggests. “I look forward to Padi Hawke discovering what she can do when she’s not tasked with trying to save a city that seems determined to ruin itself.” It’s a harsh assessment of Kirkwall, and their gazes lock when he says it. Her eyes narrow, then one brow quirks, and she sighs, giving a nod that’s almost more of a tilt of the head as she concedes the point.

“When you put it that way, I think I do too.” Her smile is shy to start but grows quickly, and it warms Sebastian to see it. Saying no to her is no easy task, and the last grit of doubt in him dissolves. He has no illusions that he knows better than she does what’s best for her, but in this question, he’s relieved that his decision prevails.

“About the other things you said.” Her voice curls like smoke from a dying candle and her smile pulls up into a smirk. “You want to serve me?”

“Yes,” he hurries to reply, encouraged by her understanding. “In any way I can, however you’ll accept it. I-- _ Oh _.” He chuckles, one hand coming up to the back of his neck. “I think you know what I mean quite well.”

The look she gives him as she turns to go licks his skin like flames beneath his clothes, with her lower lip caught between her teeth as she nods, slowly, her eyes trailing up his body. His flush worsens and in the end he gives up first, tearing his eyes away to focus on the drawer handle, anything as long as it isn’t her face. He doesn’t want her to see how deep his desire runs, while at the same time he wants to hide nothing from her. If she should choose to be with him, it must be because she sees him completely.

“Yeah, I think I know,” she replies, still grinning as she steps away from the doorway. “Good night, Sebastian. And thank you again, really,” she continues, her tone turning more earnest as the warm edge of her teasing fades. “I admit I wasn’t sure now when I came to you to ask, and it would’ve been easy for you to just accept. I think maybe I’m glad you didn’t. Anyway, sleep well.”

“Good night, Hawke. You too.” He glances up, only really stopping to watch her go when she’s turned her back and he can blush without her seeing. 

He tries to go back to the drawer of shirts, but cannot muster even what little concentration is needed for the task. Instead he finds himself replaying the conversation and the way that Hawke looked at him, heat returning to his skin each time. If she really meant for him to sleep well, then she will be disappointed, as his heart and mind are now too wound up for him to find any focus. Her presence affects him like no one else’s, a singular distraction that is not unwelcome, but that he is no longer equipped to deal with.

There is more to it as well. It is not only her flirtation, but also - perhaps even more so - her timing. She asked because tomorrow is his coronation, a fact that he has carefully sidestepped in his mind all day, but can no longer avoid, and his mind is quick to shift from thinking of her to focusing on his nervousness instead. He closes the bureau with a sigh, and for a long moment he stands and stares at the clothing he will wear tomorrow, still unable to fully grasp the reality of it, even when he reaches out to touch the fabric before turning abruptly away.

He gathers the pile of shirts on the bed and dumps them unceremoniously onto the floor. There are many uncertainties about tomorrow, even with Granger’s careful planning, but one thing he knows for certain is that it will be long, and that he must try to rest. It won’t do to have Starkhaven’s first impression of their new Prince to be him yawning on his way to the throne, or stumbling through his oath.

The bed is high and wide with a firm mattress, and the sheets are cool when he stretches out under the pile of quilts his brother always insisted on, and that Sebastian can’t bring himself to remove. He closes his eyes and breathes deep and slow, again and again, imagining himself pushing his concerns and fears about tomorrow away with each exhale. 

“O Creator, see me kneel: For I walk only where You would bid me. Stand only in places You have blessed. Sing only the words You place in my throat.”

The words come easily and he relaxes as he runs through the verses, finding comfort in the familiarity. They go from carefully spoken prayers to mumbled whispers, to fading thoughts in his head as he drifts to sleep.

The next morning finds Sebastian in the Chantry early. Starkhaven’s Chantry was built at the same time in the city’s history as the Keep, and the two bear striking similarities. Smooth white walls rise above him and give a sense of space, the feeling of a sky reflected in the ceiling painted with stars. Around the floor, however, he is surrounded by darkness, black stone and stained wood that seem to close in around him, making the space feel small and strangely intimate for a building so large.

It is unusual for Sebastian to struggle with concentration when speaking with the Maker. He finds peace in it, finds words easily to express his thoughts and emotions. When he made his way to the Chantry earlier, he hoped that today would be no different, that the change of location would help to still the rippling surface of his mind and allow some time for reflection. Yet time and again he finds himself speaking not to the Maker or His Bride, but to someone else, souls that were brought to the Maker’s side too soon.

“This was never supposed to be me, I know. I don’t know what you meant for me, but I know it wasn’t this. I’m sorry that it’s fallen to me. I would ask that you look down on me with grace and forgiveness, and patience,” he adds with a short, rueful chuckle. “Especially patience, as I take your place on the throne. If you can, I hope that you guide me, Father. Thomas, I regret that you never had this. I hope you know that I wanted this for you, and never once for myself. Whatever else I may have done, the troubles I may have caused, I was always proud to be your brother and to know that one day, I would be the brother of the Prince of Starkhaven.”

He draws a deep breath, cool and dry with the scent of incense. The Sisters were preparing the Chantry for the day when he came in, and though he assured them that they could continue and that he was the one intruding on their time, they hurried to finish and left him alone in the immense space. He doesn’t know them, both of them younger, but there had been a comfort in knowing that there was someone else here with him. His solitude is magnified by the high ceilings and long aisle, and he wishes that he did not have to spend so much of the day in the company of officials and strangers. He misses his family more than he has in years, and fears that today will be a lonely day, every part of the ceremony and celebrations a bitter reminder of why there is a place for him on the throne at all. 

The silence is broken by the soft sounds of cloth and Sebastian lifts his head, turning to look back up the aisle from where he is kneeling in front of a statue of Andraste. Goran shuffles towards him, dressed plainly, no crown or jewels save a wide gold ring on one finger. It’s a stark contrast to Sebastian’s own clothing for the day, a stiff uniform with a deep crimson coat that comes to his knees, paired with black breeches and high black boots. The buttons and other accents are in silver, likely to match the mail on the sleeves and his chest under the coat. It was the one concession he’d been willing to make for protection. The sash that crosses from his left shoulder to right hip is black, in a soft satin that catches the light despite the dark color. His cloak is also in the same crimson, with Starkhaven’s heraldry sewn onto the back. Like the sword at his side, it is purely ceremonial and more a nuisance than anything, hanging so long that it drags on the floor behind him and fastened to his shoulders. 

Sebastian stands, brushing dust from his knees as his cousin approaches. Goran is pink-cheeked and damp at his temples by the time he reaches where Sebastian is waiting for him. 

“You’re a hard man to find,” Goran huffs, though he offers a smile afterwards, and Sebastian returns it.

“You know where I’ve spent my years,” he replies. “I hope you weren’t looking for me at the bars and brothel, at least.”

Goran chuckles, shaking his head. The Chantry is a refuge for Sebastian, a home away from home, familiar to him both from his youngest days and from his years in Kirkwall. It is a haven, even if this is not the one he lived in for so long, and it seemed only natural that he come here before the start of the procession. It is where he is expected to begin, he knows; Granger’s meticulous schedule is folded neatly in his pocket, and he is to make his way from the Chantry to the Keep to greet the people of the city and let them welcome in him in return. Goran is also a man of faith, but not with the same commitment that Sebastian feels, though he doesn’t fault his cousin that. Each man’s connection to the Maker should be made on their own terms, and Goran’s life has been soft and full of privilege.

“No,” Goran replies. “But when you weren’t in your chambers, I got worried. I wanted to find you and make sure you got this.” He pulls the ring off with some difficulty, his hand trembling slightly as he holds it out to Sebastian. “Never fit me anyway,” he offers with a quick, uncertain smile. 

Sebastian looks from the ring to Goran and back, then takes it carefully from his outstretched fingers. It’s still warm from where Goran was wearing it, and Sebastian turns it over to look at the signet pressed into the top. The heraldry of Starkhaven is worn, the edges softened after centuries of use. Bits of red wax cling to the deeper parts of the seal, and he scrapes at it with his thumbnail before giving up. There will be time for that later. 

His father’s voice echoes in his mind. “_I can no more take this ring off than I can remove the title of Prince. I am Prince both day and night, and so I wear the ring at all times to remind me. _ “

The image of a Flint missionary tugging the ring from his father’s finger flashes in Sebastian’s mind, and he shuts his eyes hard against it, shaking his head to banish the thought.

“Will you be walking out with me?” Sebastian asks, looking at Goran and then past him, at the door. They have gotten closer during these weeks, certainly on better terms than most monarchs and their usurpers, but Goran is difficult to befriend and still wary of Sebastian, often keeping to himself and showing little interest in conversation. He is also the only family that Sebastian has here with him today, and he finds a sudden importance in that.

Goran shakes his head. “I’ll be tucked away in my room in the Keep. I don’t think it’s a good idea, me going with you. The people should see one Prince at a time, there should be no question who it is that leads them. You’ve been acting it for a while now, so this will be easier. They shouldn’t even be reminded that I’m here. It should be as if I’m…” His sentence trails off but his eyes go wide and he brings a hand up to cover his mouth. “No, I’m sorry, Sebastian, Maker’s Breath but that’s a terrible comparison.”

_ It should be as if he died _. Goran’s meaning is clear enough, and Sebastian understands that he means no harm by it, but he can not bring himself to smile or comfort him more than to pat him on the arm.

“It’s all right, Goran.” He grasps his cousin’s forearm, and Goran mirrors the gesture, each of them pulled towards the other. “I hope you know what a help you’ve been in this. I had no idea what I’d face when I came back to Starkhaven. This has not been easy, and the most difficult part is still before me, but you’ve been a friend and ally, and I am grateful.”

That he is grateful for Goran’s quick surrender remains unspoken as the two clap each other on the shoulder in parting before letting go and stepping away.

“Good luck today, Sebastian. Not that I think you’ll need it, but I remember how bored and tired I was by the end of it.” He starts to walk away, giving Sebastian a shy wave as he goes. “I’ll leave you to it. From the look of the crowd I saw on my way here, it’s almost time.”

He pulls the hood of his cloak up as he turns away, headed off towards one of the side exits, away from where the city will be waiting to welcome their new Prince.

Sebastian tries the ring on his middle and ring fingers before slipping it onto the first finger of his right hand. The fit is not ideal, but there is no time for adjustments, and he has to marvel that Goran was able to wear it at all. His father’s hands, indeed all of him, was more slender than Sebastian himself, and he’d been even less inclined to hard labor. 

He turns to the statue again, eyes moving among the collection of half-burned candles clustered around Andraste’s feet. “Thank you, Father. Mother. Thomas, Bartholomew. I hope I make you all proud, today and every day in the future.”

The walk up the aisle to the doors seems endless, as if the Chantry is elongating before him, and he finds himself hurrying, almost jogging by the time he reaches the exit. The doors are enormous, made from dark wood beautifully carved to depict Andraste standing with Archon Hessarian before her own pyre, still unlit. Guards in brilliantly polished armor stand on either side, awaiting him, and they shuffle to attention at his approach, setting their halberds straight by their sides, narrow banners with the Starkhaven colors shifting gently where they hang from the poles. 

Granger wanted him to wear armor today, insisting that it was a show of strength. He’d even gone so far as to show Sebastian the set that was to be his. It was beautiful, in bloodstone and black leather, studded with silver, with Starkhaven’s heraldry pressed into the breastplate. He would have been an intimidating figure indeed, but he did not take the throne by force, and that is not what he wants the people’s first impression of him to be. The uniform is still regal, still hinting at the power he wields, but it is softer as well, just as he hopes to be.

Sebastian lowers his head and takes a last, deep breath.

_ Maker, guide me. Andraste, walk with me. _

_ I am not alone. Even as I stumble on the path with my eyes closed, yet I see The Light is here. _

_ I am not alone. _

He turns to the guards and nods, and the doors swing open before him, letting in light and air and the sound of the crowd outside that comes to life at the first real glimpse of their new Prince.

The day is bright but overcast, a thick white-grey canopy of clouds diffusing the sunlight. Sebastian blinks at the sudden change from the dark of the Chantry, bringing his eyes down from the sky to look at the crowd lining what will be his path to the Keep. 

Two soldiers fall into step in front of him, two more behind, leaving their positions on either side of the Chantry door. Behind him, he knows that the Revered Mother will take her place, as will the Knight-Commander of the Templars, both of them having been waiting in a small side room near the doors. There is no First Enchanter, not formally, but the Hahren of the alienage was invited and had accepted, grateful to be asked to take part in the ceremony. Behind them will be a stream of soldiers of rank and members of the Chantry that Sebastian has yet to meet, all according to protocol.

People from all walks of life have come out to see him, their new Prince, the youngest son come back from Kirkwall to restore his family to the throne. In this part of the city there are merchants and workers; Sebastian sees a baker still in his apron, a blacksmith with his arm around his wife. There are less fortunate as well, those who will need his help the most, with dull clothes, some seeming almost afraid to look at him. He smiles at them when he can, and tells himself that he will keep them in his thoughts. Time after time, he asks the Maker to bless those who have come out to see him today, to help him help them all to joyful and prosperous lives.

Soldiers stand on either side to keep the crowd from pressing in onto the street, but they are not so strict in their duties that they don’t permit people to reach out, to call Sebastian’s name. He waves, touching their hands as he passes, trying to find a way to share himself with all of them without stopping the procession. Flowers pushed into his hands by one person are handed off to someone else a few steps closer to the Keep. A little girl grins as she takes the flowers from his hand, waving as he keeps walking.

“Welcome home, Your Highness!”

“Long live the Prince!”

“Walk in the Maker’s Light, Prince Sebastian!”

He does his best to meet the eyes of all those who call to him, to nod at them and offer a smile, but there are simply too many, and the calls come faster than he can react to them. Granger, and even Varric, had warned him not to let the crowds go to his head. He thought that they were overreacting, even underestimating his humility, but as he walks, be understands better what they meant. Everyone loves a celebration; the festivities started in the city early in the morning and will carry on long into the night, even if he will spend the day meeting the people and hearing what they would ask of him. Their joy is infectious, and it is all too easy to believe that he himself is the cause of it, not the idea of the parties that will come after he is installed and the ceremonies have ended.

The crowd folds in to follow them, soldiers falling in at the end of the procession as they make their way up the staircase that leads to the square outside the Keep. His approach is heralded with horns and drums, and he has to fight against the idea that this is all really too much for him. This is for the Prince; he simply inhabits that role now, or will soon enough. He is the leader of this city, their representative, protector, and overseer, and to deny the pomp and ceremony of it all would be akin to refusing the responsibility, and so he swallows his last reservations and grins again as he looks around him. 

A cheer erupts when Sebastian takes the final step up into the square. Here there are more nobles lining the path to the Keep, but their enthusiasm is no less than those Sebastian already passed. He eyes them with warm regard even as he is uncomfortable with the thought that they have not yet routed all those who helped to put his cousin on the throne. He can only hope that those that smile at him now, waving their kerchiefs and dropping flowers at his feet, will serve him well going forward, or leave the city in silence to avoid being found out.

The crowd moves to fill the square as the procession reaches the steps to the Keep. Sebastian stops at the bottom of the stairs, allowing the Revered Mother and other dignitaries to pass him first. He is to ascend last, to stand in the center before the throne that’s been moved here for the occasion. Granger was very specific in his instructions, to the point where Sebastian is more concerned about embarrassing his adviser than he is about embarrassing himself. 

“You did well, Your Highness,” the Hahren offers as he passes, not stopping to look nor raising his voice loud enough for anyone but the two of them to hear. 

Sebastian gives him a shallow nod, following the Hahren with his eyes as he makes his way up the stairs. Granger was quite exact that he was to stand with his back to the city, facing the throne, until the drummers finish their tattoo. It’s all minutely timed and official and necessary, he’d been assured, and this is what he tells himself as he waits, perfectly still under the eyes of all of Starkhaven.

The clatter of the drums stops, and Sebastian takes a shaky breath that comes out loud in the sudden absence of the tattoo. He runs a hand over his sash, then ascends the stairs. The square has fallen into silence behind him, and he has to concentrate to keep from stumbling, as if the whole scene isn’t quite real and could shift around him at any moment. The quiet is so heavy that it seems tangible, the eyes of all assembled like a thousand tiny threads that shift and follow his every move.

He turns to face the city, his expression calm and focused. The elation he felt as he walked through the crowd remains, but as he sees the sheer number of them, he is humbled as well. Those in the square are only a portion of those who call Starkhaven home, and yet there are so many. He will serve them all as best he can, but as he scans the faces of those closest, he seeks those who came with him, who helped him get to where he is now.

His friends are all gathered together at the front and just off to one side of center. Fenris is standing behind Merrill with his hands settled on her shoulders, and the sight warms Sebastian, though he’s not sure if Fenris means to protect Merrill from the crowd, or to keep her from rushing up to him. She is beaming up at Sebastian with her hands clasped in front of her. Isabela and Varric are beside them, and Isabela grins, inclining her head when she sees she’s caught his eye. He’ll likely never get anything closer to a bow from her, and he takes it for what it is, smiling back at her. Bethany stands with her arms wrapped around one of Hawke’s, and she looks up at Sebastian with tears in her eyes that spill down her cheeks when she smiles at him. At her feet, Canut barks, but the sound is swallowed by the crowd and the distance, and the dull roar of Sebastian’s blood in his ears.

Hawke’s smile is slow to start, but there’s joy and pride in her eyes as she watches him, and he has to fight to keep from losing himself in it; for all that he wants the crown and crowd to wait while she keeps looking at him that way, they will not. She brings her hand up to her mouth as if to cover her smile, and he grins all the wider back at her, not wanting her to hide.

Her armor is new for the occasion as well, brilliant red fabric covered by plates of leather stained black. Hawke is wearing the colors of his city, and they suit her. The pride that glows inside him at the thought is different, and his head swims at the idea that there can be such nuances to emotion, that he can feel pride looking out over the city and its people, and something similar yet so distinct when he sees her.

He looks away, back to the crowd in order to regain his focus. The Revered Mother is nearly finished singing, coming to the end of the verses of the Canticle of Benedictions that was chosen. 

“Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written.”

There is a murmur from the crowd as the prayer ends, everyone taking a moment to cough and shift their weight and do those things that one waits with when the Chant is being sung. Sebastian knows it well from the Chantry. Even if the Chant never fully stops, there are lulls, moments when it is deemed more appropriate to whisper or move. 

“Sebastian Vael, son of Starkhaven, are you willing to take the oath?” The Revered Mother’s voice carries well for a woman her size and age, and he’s startled to attention at her words. All the theoreticals of the day, all the planning and discussion, all his imaginings since coming to the city are now reality around him. Somehow he thought there would be more time, that he would stand for longer, and his mouth goes dry to find the moment already upon him.

“Aye.” Sebastian does his best to answer in kind without it feels like shouting at her.

“Do you swear to govern the peoples of the city of Starkhaven of the Free Marches, according to all laws and customs?”

“Aye.” This time he nods as well. 

“Will you to the utmost of your power maintain the will of the Maker as set down in the Chant of Light and enacted through the Chantry?”

“Aye.” His time is answer is softer, though he does not mean it any less. There are many promises that he will make today, and each of them are distinct, this one coming closest to his heart. “The things which I have here before promised, I will perform and keep,” he declares before turning from the square to look to the Revered Mother as she collects the crown from the pedestal on which it rests.

The crown shines as if from within, jewels set into polished gold smoother than any Sebastian has ever seen. There is not so much as a fingerprint anywhere on it when the Revered Mother lifts the crown from its pillow. In the center is a blood red velvet cap, clean and fresh as if the crown has never been worn. Sebastian lived in the Keep for more than half his life, but he can not recall having ever seen such a crown, and he cannot help but wonder what his younger self would have thought of such a prize. The circlet that his father wore was a much simpler piece, and while he understands the need for ceremony, he can’t help but feel as though he is unworthy the large, ornate crown. He hopes to be a Prince best suited to an unadorned circlet, wearing his authority without opulence.

He drops to one knee before her: A practical gesture as she is not a tall woman, but one that Sebastian finds familiar and appropriate in the moment. He is offering himself to city, bowing in servitude. He knows that there are those who would see the title of Prince as an opportunity to rule over others, but Sebastian instead sees himself as ruled. He will carry out the will of the people to the best of his ability. 

The crown is heavy when it settles on his head, and he rises carefully, aware of how it would look if the crown were to tumble from his head as soon as he’s been given it. All goes well, and he stands, straight-backed and proud, as a Chantry sister hands him a golden scepter studded with yet more jewels.

Sebastian takes a deep breath before addressing the crowd. "The Maker is with us, my friends! His Light shall be our banner, and we shall bear it through the gates of this good city and deliver it to our brothers and sisters within these walls. At last, the Light shall shine upon all of creation, if we are only strong enough to carry it.” He pauses and smiles, looking out over all assembled, trying to see beyond them to the streets below. “You are all my brothers and sisters, good people of Starkhaven. I am honored to be among you once more, and to be your Prince, and to bring His Light to the city. May you all walk in the Maker’s light.”

“And you,” the crowd replies as one. There is a beat of silence, then an explosion of sound as the crowd applauds him, shouting and clapping. The horns and drums begin again shortly after, meant as a signal for people to start exiting the square, but they remain, cheering Sebastian and calling to him. He nods and waves, lifts his scepter to them, almost falling into a sort of rhythm as he waits for them to depart so that he can return to the Keep. Granger told him that it wasn’t necessary to wait, that they could keep cheering for hours, and Sebastian can believe it.

He looks down where his friends are gathered, finding Hawke first among the crowd. She grins at him, and this time he returns it without reservation, setting a hand on his chest and tilting his chin as much as he can with the crown on his head. The moment is past; he is now Prince. There are many trials that await him, discussions and decisions, matters of life and death that will come before him daily, but as he stands before the city he is also still Sebastian, a man who is happiest in the company of his friends.

“Sister, go down and tell the soldiers to let those people through. Those six there.” He’s been acting in Goran’s name for weeks, ordered exile and executions, and this somehow carries more weight. It is entirely under his own authority, his first act as Prince, to allow his friends up onto the steps with him so that they can follow when he leaves the crowd behind and heads into the Keep to start his first official day as Prince.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	9. What's a Coronation Without Dancing?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a grand coronation, there must be a ball! Dancing, flirting... and some disappointment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kelly Trevelyan is one of my many Inquisitors, though he is not the Inquisitor in this fic.
> 
> This chapter's incredible art is by [paragonraptors on tumblr](https://paragonraptors.tumblr.com)!

Sebastian’s father is staring at him in the mirror. Almost.

It’s enough to be unsettling, to leave Sebastian searching the eyes of his reflection for some guidance or consternation, kindness - anything other than the anxious and weary expression that he is already wearing.

The beard aged him when he had it, he thinks, scratching at his cheek. He shaved it off before the coronation, a strange feeling of ceremony to it; something he hadn’t done since he left Kirkwall. The man looking back at him is older than he feels, but it’s only the long day and flickering light, or so he tells himself, even as a voice at the back of his mind whispers that it’s not the hours but rather the crown that’s doing it.

He’s foregone traditional Starkhaven colors in favor of a deep blue-green coat with a white cloak and gold accents. Varric laughed the first time he’d seen it, told him that it looked almost like his armor, and perhaps he was right. Perhaps there is a comfort found in the familiarity of the colors, even in the ornamental spaulder on his shoulder. Perhaps he’d wanted something as far from the grey and red of the Chantry as he could get. He’d worn Starkhaven colors for the coronation, the crimson uniform accented with black giving a somber feeling to the whole affair, even when the crowds cheered him and threw flowers at his feet. 

“Your Highness, they’re ready for you, and Lady Hawke is waiting.” Seneschal Granger hovers near the door, leaving Sebastian feeling distinctly rushed, even if there is nothing left to do but go. He runs a hand along the inside edge of the high collar, already annoyed with it, and tugs at the bottom of his coat before leaving, giving a last nod to the ghost in the mirror as he goes.

The ceremonial sword swings awkwardly at his side, even lighter than a normal weapon, and he clamps his hand down on it to hold it still. It continues to shift while they walk up the hall to the entrance to the ballroom, and Sebastian pauses when they turn the next to last corner, electing to remove it from his belt. Granger takes it with no complaint, but a look of disapproval. He’d worn the same look the day before when Sebastian allowed children to play in the throne room while he spoke with their parents, even holding a baby at one point so that the mother could explain her case. That part of the day, at least, was not so different from his time in Chantry, with the exception that he had more opportunity than ever to help people beyond offering forgiveness, or guidance for weary souls. Coin does not solve everything, but some things, only coin can solve. The royal coffers are so deep as to be frustrating to him, years of mismanagement and greed leading to the collection of exorbitant sums. Those who asked for immediate assistance asked for little more than drops in the ocean he has at his disposal, and he looks forward to being able to do more in the future.

Faint music and the lull of conversation bring Sebastian back out of his thoughts. Where yesterday was spent in humility and quiet listening, absorbing and accepting and trying to understand, tonight will be more of a performance, if not a battlefield. He must win over the nobility and get them on his side, show them that he is one of them just as much as he is a Chantry Brother. His boots whisper on the carpet as he and Granger pass mirrors and small tables set with candelabras and vases with flowers, and he tries to formulate a plan of attack but everything else stops when they round the final corner and he sees the sight before him. 

Hawke is waiting by the top of the staircase, off to one side of the door. She leans over to peek out a little, then straightens again, looking down at her hands where they’re clasped loosely in front of her. 

They’ve seen little of each other in the week since their conversation on the balcony and her visit to his bedroom, and Sebastian has done his best to reassure himself that it’s been circumstance and not anyone’s design that’s kept them apart. Most of his time has been with Goran and Granger, taking in as much as he can in preparation for his coronation, and in the chapel, seeking guidance and contemplating the future. It is only when he sees her that he is able to put a name to the dull ache that he has been unable to banish. He’s missed her.

Her hair is swept back from her face, save for a couple small pieces, shorter and delicately curled. He can see thin braids, two on each side, that lead from above her ear and her temple back to meet where the length of her hair has been piled, drawn together only to cascade down her back in a collection of curls and braids that must have taken Bethany and her magic the better part of the day to set in place. It’s elegant and yet free, swaying when she moves her head, pins topped with pearls or small crystals stuck in almost at random, but adding a subtle sparkle. Time, salves, and what healing magic Bethany knows have done their work as well. He can not see that side of her face, but knows from careful observation on those days he has seen her that the scar has faded: still deep, but no longer red and angry.

The gown has a wide v-shaped neckline, not so deep as broad, going from the outside of one shoulder to the other, leaving her collarbone exposed, as well as the not immodest swell of her breast, her emerald necklace resting just above the line created there. The neckline is edged in pale gold satin that winds around her bodice and down to her waist, leaving the skirt to fall free past her hips to the floor. All of it is in a pale, pearlescent green that shifts to blue, gold, even violet when she moves, and Sebastian is not entirely convinced that Bethany hasn’t enchanted her sister’s gown as well as her hair. The sleeves are wide and hang long, but fall back out of the way when Hawke lifts her hands to fiddle with a ring. 

She is a vision, pale and cool where Sebastian already feels overheated and stuffy, even if he’d insisted that the uniform be as light as possible, and the royal tailors delivered on that promise. Seeing her warms him even more, a swell of attraction to a beautiful form that he’s not felt in years. 

Shame barrels in after to supersede any thrill he might feel, reminding him of the countless nobles’ daughters he’s whispered to and coaxed out of such gowns, the marks left on bared necks when he was finished with them, hair hopeless and makeup smudged, all traces of perfume sweated off. He shivers, his body unsure how to deal with the conflict in his mind. This is not what he wants with her, not what he wants for himself or for them in this evening, however much of it they may spend together. 

He admired her from the first time he saw her, bright, intelligent eyes and the sharpness of her jawline. Even now, mixed in with the heat and the regret is something altogether different, a longing tempered by the knowledge that it’s Hawke he’s looking at. The same woman who stood up to a Qunari Arishok, whom he battled with to slay a high dragon, is now pacing nervously at the door to a ballroom, smoothing skirts that move like water over her hips. Both the shame and the desire are haloed by it, and he would push them aside to see this light for what it is, rather than the shadows in front of it. 

“Hawke.” It’s barely a breath when he says it, but it’s all that he can manage, and he’s grateful for Granger’s sense of timing, as he’d left as soon as Sebastian saw her. He can barely bring himself to be this overwhelmed in front of her, let alone anyone else.

She turns her head, curls following to spill over her shoulder, and smiles shyly when she sees him, lowering her eyes only to look up at him again, and then a third time, before finally looking away and taking a step towards him. He does the same, eager to close the distance between them. 

“Forgive me, I ought to--” He takes a breath to still his racing heart, then takes her hand and bends to kiss it. “Lady Hawke,” he murmurs, and her skin is so much softer than he anticipated when he brushes his lips to her knuckles. She smells of vanilla and some sweet flower, a dark scent that clings and fills his senses, even after he straightens to look at her again. 

“You’re taller.” His head is swimming, and just as before, he finds himself on the edge of falling and has to fight to step back from the darkness below him. He knows how foolish it sounds as soon as he says it, but it wins him a grin, and her eyes sparkle when he looks him over.

“Is that really all you have to say about how I look?” She is still holding his hand, and she tugs at it, but she’s smiling. 

He chuckles, running his thumb over the backs of her fingers. “Quite the opposite. I find myself at a loss for words in the face of your beauty.” As he speaks, he hooks one finger under the chain of her necklace, adjusting it where it rests on her skin, his gaze following, then dropping further, admiring her body and letting her see that he admires it. Only this, he tells himself, nothing more.

“They’ll be expecting us,” he sighs, guiding her to set her hand on his arm and covering it with his own. 

“They’ll be expecting you, Your Highness.”

They are both quiet for a moment, as if mentally preparing for the final step through the door and into the limelight. There is no one else that he would rather have at his side for this entrance into the spotlight, and even if she breaks from his side and he is without her for the rest of the evening, he can treasure this moment. 

“I’ve missed you,” he mutters, but it’s lost under her words, and he doesn’t repeat it.

“I may have had a glass of wine while Bethany fixed my hair,” she whispers, keeping her eyes forward. “Between that, these shoes, and you just now? Please don’t let me fall, Sebastian.”

Her grip tightens on his arm, and he pats her hand reassuringly. “Never,” he replies with a low chuckle, the word loaded with so much meaning beyond a simple walk down the stairs. 

“Presenting His Royal Highness, Prince Sebastian Vael, and Lady Padi Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall.”

The room freezes as they take their first steps, all eyes on the new Prince and the woman on his arm. He silently begs them all to look at her instead of him, as there is no one else there more deserving of their attention. Far from the stumbling she was worried about, she floats down the stairs beside him, head held high with a smile that appears faint, but genuine.

“Padi Hawke,” she whispers, lips barely moving. “How did you get them to--”

“I promised you that it would be our secret,” he replies with the slightest of smiles as they reach the bottom of the stairs, the ceremonial stillness broken around them. 

Sebastian turns to her and takes both her hands in his. “I’m afraid my attention will likely be elsewhere for much of the evening, but if I wasn’t clear before, let me be plain now. You shine with the Maker’s own Light, and I have never seen anyone, anything as beautiful as you, standing here before me tonight.”

As if on cue, Granger approaches with a stately older couple, prepared to make introductions.

“Your Highness.” Hawke nods to him, to Granger and the couple, before stepping away, her hand lingering in his for as long as possible, extending their arms between them as she slips away. 

Over the nobleman’s shoulder, he sees Hawke find her sister in the crowd, and only then can he give the introduction his full attention, smiling and listening and promising nothing, all while brushing his thumb along the pads of his fingers, remembering her touch.

The evening drags on, the first half an exercise in protocol more than entertainment. Sebastian finds that he is grateful for Granger, a rare occurrence, but he does not stand a chance at remembering all the names and faces that he meets, and knowing that Granger has them all in a book somewhere frees him up to attempt real conversation rather than fighting to commit them all to memory. The introductions are often short and polite, though many of them insist on bringing up his family and the tragedy of their loss, as if to make sure he is aware that they had no part in it. Such a shame. We’ve missed them dearly. It shocked the city. So good to have a proper Vael back on the throne. He thanks them for their input and opinions, but finds himself in the strange position of comforting them as they are so wrapped up in their own emotions regarding the matter. He is certain some of them mention it only to absolve themselves of guilt, twisting themselves into knots before him in a show of overzealous sincerity that leaves him eager to change the subject, or the conversation partner altogether. 

Some noble families have brought their younger generations as well, and he feels the first signs of a headache from a seemingly endless offering of perfumed hands to kiss. The sons are easier, most of them angling for a military position though some give him lingering looks that leave him wondering at their intentions. He’s felt most himself with the surprising number of members of the Chantry who accepted the invitation, though the sight of familiar robes and silver hair in his periphery has caused more than one pang of loss, and more than one moment of doubt.

Dinner is more sedate, a menu of Starkhaven’s most well-known dishes, as well as some of Sebastian’s favorites for a more personal touch. At the request of the Revered Mother, Sebastian himself blesses the meal, asking the Maker for peace and prosperity, good harvests and full nets for the coming seasons. The table is set with porcelain edged with gold, all of it seeming to glow in the candlelight reflected on mirrors set into the walls around them.

It’s the first chance he’s had to see Hawke since they entered the ballroom. His hands twitch at his sides, wanting to be the one who pulls her chair out for her, not some servant whose name he has yet to learn. He hears Granger in his head reminding him that ceremony is important, however, and not for the first time tonight he must allow others to do the work that he enjoys. There are too many people watching, and too many of them recall who he was, and are all too eager for him to make his first mistake. Being so familiar with a woman could be far too easily misinterpreted, and he won’t have that, not for himself, and absolutely not for Hawke. 

Sebastian settles in beside her at the center of the long table. She leans in closer to him, warm and smiling, and he fights against the swell of joyful satisfaction that comes with the thought that she is as glad to see him as he is to see her. 

“Fenris is wearing boots,” she hisses, looking past him and nodding. Sebastian follows, seeing Fenris seated farther down on the other side of the long table due to some arcane set of rules that mean he must be separated from his friends. Fenris is wearing a similar uniform to Sebastian’s own, but in the stark red and black of Starkhaven’s heraldry, a guard uniform that’s dotted the landscape of guests under the first part of the night. It suits him in Sebastian’s opinion, and while Fenris does not look happy to be at the table, he does meet Sebastian’s eyes and give him a calm nod.

“Merrill?” Sebastian asks, eyes cutting to the side to look at Hawke, who only purses her lips and shakes her head, doing her best to look disappointed, but she cracks almost immediately, giggling and looking down at her lap. He smiles as well, relieved in way. There is no reason that his friends should be inconvenienced and uncomfortable just because it’s forced on him. Merrill is an ambassador for the elves. She should be allowed to dress the part, barefoot among nobility and Chantry if she so chooses.

“Isabela’s not here,” she continues, keeping her voice low, mouth half-hidden behind her wine glass. “She ‘doesn’t do this sort of thing anymore,’ she said. She also said she’s dealing the first hand tomorrow night, though.”

He’d been so busy with the planning, and the evening itself, that Varric’s upcoming departure slipped his mind, and the reminder settles like a shadow on this thoughts. He still thinks of Aveline daily and has sent two ravens that have gone unanswered. The thought of allowing anyone to go back to Kirkwall bothers him, but he can not keep Varric from his home, even if the promised game of Wicked Grace is no longer a marker of his last night in Starkhaven. He’s given a tenuous promise to stay on until Sebastian is more settled, and while it is tempting to draw the process out, he also understands Varric’s longing to return to Kirkwall. 

Dinner is peppered with speeches both from and about Sebastian. His and Goran’s were planned, written together to ensure a sense of agreement about the future. A nobleman who indulged freely in the wine before the meal gives most of a rambling but spirited account of a time he saw Sebastian in the city in his youth. It wanders into the same sentiments he’d received earlier about his family, and several people people shush the man before he is finally pulled back to his seat by his wife. Somewhere in it was the idea that it was good to have Starkhaven’s son back, that Sebastian is right for the city. He can only hope that will prove to be true.

They eat over muted conversation, Sebastian making his first attempts at using his influence as Isabela suggested. There is a school in need of a new roof, located not far from the estate of a nobleman with a shy daughter, and the Prince would be glad to know that it was taken care of. He is assured it will be done, and so pleased with himself that he forgets to finish his soup, a creamy concoction of fish and spices that he hasn’t tasted in years.

Courses come and go. Goran is seated at his left hand, and if Sebastian feels overwhelmed, it is nothing compared to his cousin’s distress. He’s come to understand Goran’s low tolerance for small talk, how quickly he can become irritated when he is not allowed to speak until finished; a difficult task under the best of circumstances, but Goran is no longer Prince, and many at the table seem almost to enjoy talking over him, asking questions without waiting for his answers. More than once Sebastian politely steps in to a conversation, taking over to allow Goran to eat in peace. The grateful glances he receives from his cousin are thanks enough.

After tea and dessert, a serving man announces that there will be music and dancing in the ballroom. In the sort of moment that Sebastian dreads, but which he understands will now be a permanent part of his life, everyone looks at him, waiting for him to stand so they can follow suit and continue with the evening. And so he does, all smiles and nods, his hand resting lightly on Hawke’s back, the gentlest of touches begging her not to go without him. She doesn’t, stepping in close to him to allow others to pass as they make their way out of the room.

“That’s the first time I’ve ever sat at such a table instead of standing by a wall off to one side,” Fenris remarks as they make their way back to the main room. His voice is low, for Sebastian and Hawke only to hear as they walk with him.

It’s an unanticipated mention of his past, one that leaves Sebastian curious what provoked it. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“The food was very rich, and I’m not sure how I feel about being served. I don’t know that I’ll attend another one.”

Sebastian pauses, turning to look at him. “I am grateful for your presence and support tonight, but I understand. You’re under no obligation to stay now, or to attend in the future.”

Fenris relaxes visibly, and Sebastian is glad to see it, though not without a twinge of regret at his words. As leader of the city’s guard, there may come a time when his presence is expected, but with the explanation Fenris has given here and now, Sebastian will do what he can to make those times as short and few as possible, and not require him at meals to avoid any issues with servants.

Music greets them as they return to the ballroom and the atmosphere is already more jovial and relaxed than it was prior to dinner. The first dance of the evening starts shortly after Sebastian’s arrival, and he realizes belatedly that the musicians were waiting for him, just as he was eager to avoid being drawn in to the dance. The tune is familiar, a lively group dance with men and women lined up across from each other, weaving in and out, forming small circles on the dance floor only to come together in lines again. Sebastian remembers it well enough to keep from making a fool of himself, and had requested it to start the evening, not wanting something stiff and stately. 

Fenris is watching from the far side of the room, his hair easy to see even in the low light away from the dancers. Sebastian wheels past Bethany, her expression almost frantic as she tries to keep up with the young man who has a firm grip on her hand. He and Merrill meet in a circle, and he can’t help but wonder how two women, both in green and gold, can look so different as her and Hawke. Merrill is overjoyed, picking up the steps easily and looking better than all of them as she dips and twirls in her bare feet and ruffled layers, a definite improvement over Sebastian’s stiff boots.

“I had no idea shem danced like this!” She calls to him when they meet in the center of the circle. Her eyes bulge and she gasps, realizing a moment too late that her choice of words might be inappropriate, but Sebastian can’t begrudge her that, not when he sees the looks some of the other dancers give her. 

He catches her by the waist with one arm and she mirrors him, their other arms raised above their heads. She’s grinning, and so is he, and if this is meant to be his introduction to Starkhaven, then let it be known that elves are welcome beside him as well as any human. They part, turning about to face new partners, and he comes face to face with Hawke, pink-faced and smiling. He cocks a brow at her, and she matches him as he offers her his hand for the next round of steps.

“You’re shorter again,” he remarks as they line up again, a mix of women and men this time, her still at his side.

“They’re with Varric,” she replies, dropping her shoulder to slip between two others as the lines cross and they meet again. “Can’t do this in high heels. I’m hoping no one notices, so thank you for pointing it out,” she adds, grinning at him.

He takes her waist to spin them as he did with Merrill, and Hawke laughs as he pulls her with him, the same sort of laugh that he’d heard so many times at The Hanged Man, deep and sparkling, piercing through the music and chatter, straight to his heart. 

For all that he dreaded it at the start, Sebastian finds the dance ends too soon, with all applauding each other and the musicians, who take only a moment’s pause before starting in on something slower and more refined. Sebastian is winded, not from the dance but from laughter that stole the air from around him. Hawke leans against him, patting his arm before picking up her skirts and walking to where Varric is standing beside Fenris, her shoes near his feet.

“Nice footwork. I didn’t know you could do that without bows and staves.” Varric laughs as the rest of the group come over to join them. Merrill looks refreshed, particularly compared to Bethany, who appears to have fought and won a battle with the gentlemen of Starkhaven, her pale blue dress unwrinkled but her cheeks and neck flushed, her hair tousled around her shoulders.

“I need a drink,” she sighs, pushing her loose curls back out of her face.

“Coming right up, Sunshine.”

Hawke sets her hand on Sebastian’s arm to steady herself while she slips her shoes on again, only to leave it there once she’s done. He glances at it, but makes no move to step away, relishing in her choice to stay at his side once the song has ended. The moment is over soon after, however, with Varric returning with glasses for everyone and Hawke taking her hand away to hold hers.

“Some kind of juice for you, your Choir Boyness, so you at least look the part.” Sure enough, whatever’s in his glass is dark and deliciously cold, tart like berries, and completely without alcohol. He gives Varric a grateful glance, but nothing more. His insistence on not using Sebastian’s title was a minor annoyance prior to the coronation. Now, he wishes that he could have that one sign of respect from Varric without having to ask for it, just as he knows that he will never be able to bring himself to demand it of his friend.

“Thank you all so much for this evening,” Sebastian offers, looking at each of them in turn. “I have to go be royal and social now, but hopefully we’ll all talk during the night. And to those of you who danced, thank you for the dance,” he adds, giving Hawke an extra glance before he moves away. She nods from behind her wine glass, smiling at Sebastian until he turns away, looking out over the sea of people that fill the ballroom.

There is no protocol that Sebastian has been taught to make himself look approachable when he is on his own, but no sooner does he find himself with a moment to collect his thoughts then he is joined by a member of the Chantry. He’s only met a couple of them so far: The Revered Mother and her closest assistants. This woman is younger, her shoulder-length blonde hair uncharacteristically loose beneath the black cap that identifies her as a Chancellor.

She falls into step beside him, hands clasped loosely in front of her as they walk. “Do you really think it’s wise to enter the room with a woman on your arm who blew up a Chantry?”

Sebastian tilts his chin up and folds his hands behind his back. For all that he would not stand on ceremony with every new person he meets, her insubordination is breathtaking, with not so much as a bow or introduction before she sets into her criticism, as if they are old friends or colleagues. While he may still be a Chantry Brother, this evening is a celebration of his taking his place as Prince, and he is acting the part. If she means to impress him with her brashness, she’s utterly failing. “I see no such person here, Chancellor.”

The Chancellor clicks her tongue. “Sebastian--”

“The term of address is Your Highness, My. Lady.” And now he does stop, turning to stare at her and making no effort to hide the displeasure in his expression. There is no joy for him in correcting her, and he does not relish how easily he slips into remembered haughtiness and all the small signals used among nobility to voice aggravation and distaste. For her part, she shies back, glancing up and down his body, but there is a spark of defiance in her eyes when she speaks again.

“Your Highness,” she begins again, pressing her lips to a thin, pale line. “You can not expect that people will not make assumptions regarding your piety when you are seen consorting with an enemy of the Chantry.”

It’s his turn to lean away, though his disbelief is more feigned. The idea crossed his mind prior to today, but he discarded it in favor of the much more enjoyable thought of having Hawke on his arm. For his part, he is more than willing to expect people to make assumptions regarding his piety, but those should be based on his continuing as a Chantry Brother, not on misinformation regarding the disaster in Kirkwall. “Consorting?” He hisses, looking away only long enough to deposit his empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter.

She purses her lips, head tilted slightly to one side as if explaining to a particularly petulant child. “Sitting next to you at dinner, dancing. As Prince your faith is a very public matter, you must be beyond reproach.”

He folds his arms across his chest and levels his gaze at her, biting down to keep the anger that simmers within him from spilling out in untempered words. It’s been a long time since he’s argued his choice with companions with someone else and he hoped to avoid such a discussion here tonight, he will defend Hawke with all he has. He may be out of practice, but he has not forgotten how to put nosy strangers in their place. “And you think you should be the one to tell the Prince how to conduct himself in this matter? You’re not even a member of the clergy, yet here you stand, bold as brass.” A thought occurs to him, and his eyes widen. “I see,” he breathes. “Do you think it would be better publicity if I had a Chantry Chancellor on my arm?”

Her mouth falls slightly open as a flush flares over her skin. “I-- That is not what I meant.” She lowers her eyes, her gaze shifting, not settling anywhere. “I merely wanted to help you. You’ve not been Prince long, Your Highness, and I thought--”

He holds up a hand and she stops, going still as his speaks, his voice kept even by the tension in it. “Lying is a sin, Chancellor.”

There is no reward in the fear he sees in her eyes when she looks up at him. Part of him anticipated that such accusations could arise, and he is prepared to deal with them as they come, but not from a low-level clerk who thinks that her overly familiar attitude towards him will win his favor. He almost feels sorry for her, to think that she calculated so poorly when she made this decision.

“I have a meeting with the Revered Mother in a few days’ time,” he tells her. “Leave me now and do not speak to me again this evening, and perhaps I will have forgotten this episode when I meet with her.”

She nods quickly, bending at the knee in a nervous gesture that is neither bow nor curtsey, then hurries away towards the other side of the room. He watches her go for a moment, shaking his head and sighing to himself. The Prince of Starkhaven has always had a close relationship with the Chantry, and Sebastian expects nothing less for himself, perhaps even a closer relationship than many, given the turns his life has taken. That doesn’t mean that he will heed their every suggestion, however; there will be times when their interests do not align, and while this intrusion was only a minor example, Sebastian is pleased with how he handled himself. His private life is not the Chantry’s business. He can only hope that the subject doesn’t come up again when he meets with the Revered Mother later this week.

The hours stretch from evening to late and beyond, and Sebastian finds himself on the landing near where he and Hawke came in. Talking to the nobility has become easier as they’ve enjoyed the contents of the wine cellar, and he’s reluctant to call this a retreat, but up here he is half-hidden by a curtain and able to take some time for himself. He has kept his distance from the other Chantry members as much as possible without seeming impolite, not wanting to fall into another situation where he is forced to listen to unwanted opinions of his conduct, and every noble daughter he’d been presented with earlier in the evening has found herself too shy or nervous when their parents have tried to arrange a dance between them. One poor child turned green and needed to be led to the balcony for fresh air.

His eyes skim the room, taking in the elaborate checkered marble floor, set to mirror the courtyard below, with gilded accents set into the stone. Stripes of dark stone run along the walls, and heavy mirrors make the room appear larger than it is. The far end has high windows above glass doors that now stand open to let in a little of the cooler evening air, someone’s attempt to keep those who are still present from falling asleep on the plush couches and chairs set out around the fireplaces at either end of the room. 

When his gaze returns to the dancers, he finds Bethany first, whirling near the center of the dance floor with a man who looks uncannily like the King of Ferelden, a Grey Warden who turned out to be Cailan’s bastard, and also a man with a warm laugh and open manner that Sebastian appreciates. For a moment he watches them, glad to see that they’re enjoying themselves, but then they turn to one side of the floor and his eyes pick out Hawke immediately, every part of him drawn to her as soon as she so much as enters the corner of his vision. She is standing off to the side of the dance floor, but she is not alone, and Sebastian frowns to himself.

“Lord Kelly Trevelyan,” Granger tells him, appearing at his elbow like a specter. Or a ghoul, to be more correct. For all that he has been useful, Sebastian is still not entirely sure he trusts the man, and this sneaking that he does is no help, especially when he provides the answer to a question that otherwise only existed in Sebastian’s mind.

“He was in the city, and it seemed best to invite him,” Granger explains, gesturing to the pair below. “You don’t want to turn a visiting noble away, not when you yourself are still so--”

Sebastian raises his hand to cut the Seneschal off before he digs himself into a deeper hole. He sees Granger open his mouth to object, then think better of it, turning on his heel and leaving.

The dark-haired Lord Trevelyan sought Hawke out as soon as he’d come into Sebastian’s view, it seemed, barely sparing a moment for several others who’d tried to stop him for a chat. He is impeccably dressed in dark blue and grey, fitted and fashionable but without the Orlesian touches many of the others bear, the style leaning more towards a dress uniform, though Sebastian doubts he’s done any real military service. Trevelyan had approached him several times during the evening, always when Sebastian has been otherwise occupied.

He watches as they talk, Trevelyan bowing unnecessarily deep to kiss her hand before leading her to the dance floor, and Sebastian balls one hand into a fist where they’re resting at the small of his back. If he were to descend to the floor now, he would be swarmed with requests for dances, and he is not interested, instead preferring to watch, especially now.

The waltz is spirited and Trevelyan is a competent dancer, though it amuses Sebastian to see that Hawke is not prepared to give the lead away without reservation. Time and again he seeks to pull her in close with a hand at her waist, only for her to put distance between them at the next step. It adds a level of complexity to the dance, one that Hawke is handling arguably better than her partner. Sebastian is not proud of how pleased he is to see it, and reminds himself that Hawke is a free woman. Her actions with other men have nothing to do with him. 

Trevelyan spins her, pulling Hawke’s back flush against his chest, and whispers something indecipherable in her ear while he has her there. When she spins away a moment later, her laughter is as clear as a Chantry bell through cold morning air, and it hits Sebastian like a blow to the chest. In his mind he sees himself vaulting from the edge of the balcony, landing at the edge of the dance floor, and then-- 

And then what? Will he fight for her honor with drawn daggers? Somehow he can’t imagine that such a display would impress her, and who is he to deny Hawke a moment’s joy in an evening neither of them have been looking forward to? His irritation at her laughter is unfair to her, and he squeezes his eyes closed, shaking his head. He has no right to have this feeling that creeps up his throat; it’s unfair of him and unworthy of their friendship that he should want anything but happiness for her.

“You should get down there, Your Highness.” This time it’s Varric, the interruption more welcome. Sebastian is uncomfortable with the flare of jealousy in him and relieved to be distracted.

He chuckles at the hastily added title, though he fails to experience any real comfort from it, his thoughts too distracted by the events on the dance floor. “Thank you, but no. Best to leave the guests to enjoy themselves, wear themselves out, perhaps. Every appearance I make extends the evening by at least an hour.”

Varric sighs and shakes his head as he comes to stand beside Sebastian and watch the dance along with him. “You’re the Prince; they’re here to see you.” He clears his throat, following Sebastian’s gaze down to Hawke and Trevelyan. “I’ve read the Chant cover to cover, and there’s nothing in it that says a man can’t be happy for a while. Go on, show him how things are done in Starkhaven.”

Sebastian shakes his head. “I’m not really--”

“I saw you before,” Varric points out. “You two dance together as well as you fight together. Now please, go, before I have to come up with something else to say to convince you.”

There will be no winning with Varric. Sebastian recalls too well the night at the Hanged Man with a glass of whiskey, Varric’s observational skills and relentlessness, and so he nods to him, taking his leave and setting off down the stairs.

His steps are heavy and deliberate, and he swears he could count the new faces that turn to look at him with each stair he descends. There is a noticeable hush over the crowd by the time he reaches the dance floor, and he almost feels sorry for putting Trevelyan in this position.

“Might I have the next dance, my Lady?” His own bow is sweeping without the drama of Trevelyan’s, and Sebastian turns to look at him when he rises again. “My Lord.”

“Your Highness.” Trevelyan bends the bare minimum needed for propriety’s sake. “Lady Amell. I take my leave, for now.”

“It’s Lady Hawke,” she calls after him, lips pursed to a thin line as she watches him go. “Three times I told him. I half-expected him to call you Brother Sebastian to your face,” she adds, waving a hand dismissively after him.

He chuckles, even as he gives Trevelyan’s retreating form a dark glance. “It’s at least an honest title. I’ve been called worse.”

Sebastian pauses as he returns his attention to her, his irritation with Trevelyan falling away as all his focus falls on what he is about to do. His hand hovers by her side, suddenly unsure as they prepare to start. It was easier in the middle of the folk dance, the steps more muscle memory than conscious thought, no time to consider that he was holding her. Hawke is steady, however, where he is momentarily adrift in his own thoughts. She presses his hand to her waist before sliding her own up his arm to rest on his shoulder. She gives his other hand a reassuring squeeze.

“I’ve not danced like this in a long time,” he confesses as the music starts. 

“I hadn’t either, until tonight. Bethany and I have been giving each other lessons, trying to remember what Mother taught us.” She looks away for a moment at the mention of her mother and Sebastian’s eyes follow the line of her jaw and her neck, drinking in the sight of her.

“You’ve been taking lessons and didn’t think to invite me?” He gapes at her, raising his eyebrows. “I have to impress all these people, Hawke. You must help me.” 

His feigned panic does the trick, pulling her out of her thoughts and back into the moment. She smiles at him and shakes her head, but she also helps, guiding him with subtle touches, never letting him appear to lose the lead. This waltz is slower, softer and more whirling than the one she’d danced with Trevelyan, and he’s glad for it. There’s less call to follow strict steps; they can float around the floor as they wish, though they do find themselves shuffled to the center, better for the rest of the dancers to keep an eye on them. Even so, he finds that he can relax, little by little, focusing on Hawke and letting the others fade into the background. She is as surefooted here as in a fight and just as graceful. She could do a backflip and he doubts it would look out of place, and the thought pulls a laugh from him.

“What?” She steps in closer, her hand at the back of his neck now, and her perfume blooms up in the warm air between them. “Who are we laughing at? Point them out, but be subtle. Is it him with the feathers?”

“No, it’s not--” He shakes his head, clearing his throat and glancing down, not wanting to fall out of step. He moves his hand moves to the small of her back, eager to keep her close even as his stomach flutters. “It’s silly, don’t worry about it.”

“It’s not me, is it?”

She asks with a tone that tells him she’s not serious, but he can’t help but take her at her word. “Maker, no, Padi. You’re a vision. I’ve never seen you like this before. You’re breathtaking. What I was thinking about is how you can do this, fit in anywhere and look like you belong. It’s a rare talent, and I admire it.”

This time, when she looks away, she’s smiling, color high on her cheeks. 

“Do you know what he said to me, that Lord Trevelyan?” They turn, and when they come together again, his hand returns the small of her back and he smiles to find that she wants to stay so close to him. “He’d heard of me, of my  _ exploits _ , I think was the word he used. He was impressed with me, and apparently he tried to do the same in Ostwick, but was unsuccessful.” She glances to meet his gaze, and they share a knowing look. There is no one like Hawke, though they each think so for different reasons, he suspects. “He--” She makes a disgusted sound at the back of her throat. “As if it was an invitation! He said that I was welcome to come to Ostwick with him, to do as I had done in Kirkwall.”

This time, Sebastian does stumble, though Hawke is quick to keep them in time with the music. It’s warm on the dance floor but a chill goes through him all the same, his hand tightening where he holds hers close to his chest.

“I may have hurt your chances to get his favor, but I laughed at him,” she admits, and another chill goes through him to see her looking sheepish when she says it. “He can’t take care of his own city, and he thinks it’s an honor to ask me to come and do it, as if I’m still a Fereldan refugee, hired muscle available to anyone with two sovereigns to rub together.”

He recalls the suggestion that she’d made to him the night before his coronation, to act as his Champion in Starkhaven, as she’d done in Kirkwall. Had she seen herself that way, when she’d offered her services? Did she think that was Sebastian saw her, little more than a useful brute with a bow?

“I hope you know I’ve never thought that of you,” he replies, looking down to try to meet her eyes. “There is so much more to you than the legends that have grown beyond Kirkwall. When you said that you would be my Champion--”

Hawke is already shaking her head. “That was different. That was my choice, and if you asked again today, I would do it. You are no Lord Trevelyan, Your Highness.”

“Thank the Maker for small miracles,” he laughs. She joins him, that same sparkling laugh he’d heard at the Hanged Man, and for a moment he loses his train of thought as he looks at her. Her bright smile and pink cheeks, the affection in her eyes - all of that is for him. “And thank you again, but again, no. I want you to take the time to decide what you want to do here. I’ve no doubt you can do anything, Hawke, and I look forward to seeing what that looks like when you’re not tasked with saving a city.” He gives her hand a squeeze. “You leave that part to me.”

The dance ends, with a smattering of applause around them. Hawke is beaming at him, and moves to set a hand on the side of his face, leaning in to kiss him. The Chancellor’s words echo in the back of his mind, pulling with them a reminder of the attraction he’d felt when he’d first seen her, and the knowledge that he is being watched by nobles eager to see him fail and fall back into his old habits. It mixes into something sour in his stomach and he panics, taking a step away and bending to kiss her hand instead. It’s all too public, too much, too soon. He hasn’t sorted out his own feelings yet, and won’t have something so nebulous on display for this many people, not until he’s had a chance to talk to Hawke and explain what a relationship with him would look like. To kiss him here would be to commit to something he can’t be sure she actually wants or understands.

Hawke takes her hand away, fingers curling into a loose fist at her side, and when he meets her eyes again, the light in them is gone. Acid creeps up the back of his throat as she looks at him, frowning, her cheeks now colored with embarrassment. 

“Your Highness.” She tilts her head just enough to be a bow before turning away, and he sees how she stands lost in the crowd for a few moments before spotting Bethany and hurrying away. He makes no move to follow her; to try to explain now would likely only make it worse.

The dancing resumes around him, and Sebastian makes his way off the dance floor, mumbling pardons and apologies as he weaves between pairs of bodies. Heads turn as he goes, and already he hears whispers, his name and Hawke’s, speculation starting immediately. If he pursues Hawke now, even only to talk with her, it would only spark more talk.

He makes several slow laps of the ballroom, doing his best to appear idle while carefully avoiding almost everyone in the room. There is only one person he wants to talk to, and when he is drawn into conversations he finds himself drifting, seeking her out in the crowd and missing what’s said to him. After too many such moments, he excuses himself and steps away. He can not continue the night in this fashion, not with his embarrassment eating at him, and not knowing that he’s hurt her with his actions.

Sebastian finds her standing by one of the open doors, looking out over the waterfall and wilderness north of the city. She’s silhouetted by moonlight, the edges of her hair and gown shining pale and cool.

He clears his throat. “Lady Hawke, may I have a moment of your time?”

She shrugs with one shoulder, not moving to look at him. “It’s not my ball. I suppose I have time if you need it.”

He winces. Her anger is clear in her tone, and he’s unaccustomed to having it directed at him. “I wanted to apologize for earlier. That was ungracious of me.”

At that, she does turn, only to shrug again with her eyebrows, then look away. Her hair tumbles down off her shoulder to hang along her back. “It was a necessity. There are a lot of women - and some men - who have been admiring you tonight. Me among them. I suppose it’s important, politically, for you to be available, unattached.”

His chest aches to hear her say it, to know that that’s what it looked like to her. He steps towards her, angling himself to stand in her periphery as he holds out a hand, almost close enough to brush his fingertips along her arm. “No, please, Padi, it’s not that at all. This is why I need to apologize. There is no one else in this hall who captivates me the way that you do, but I panicked. My past is not so forgotten here; there are nobles who recall how I behaved in my youth. Some of them expect me to fail again; they want it, even.” His arm falls to his side, the motion to touch her remaining unfinished.

Hawke watches him out of the corner of her eye as he talks. “I see.” She nods, pursing her lips and looking away from him. “Their opinions must be very important to you,” she mutters. She holds one hand in the other, running her thumb over her knuckles.

Sebastian sighs, combing a hand back through his hair. “It’s not that. I don’t want to see you caught up in the rumors that can be started by such a thing.”

She pulls in a quick, audible breath, nodding by lifting her chin. “Oh,” she drawls, and the ache in Sebastian’s chest worsens at her sarcasm. “So that was for my sake, then? You want to avoid rumors for  _ me _ . I’m flattered by your concern for my reputation.” 

It is as if she is determined to twist every attempt he makes to explain himself. “Yes. For myself, but for you as well. You have done nothing to deserve to be painted with that brush. You are more important to me than every noble in this room.”

“Not so important that you would show them that?” 

“And what, exactly, am I supposed to be showing them?” Irritation sparks in his voice. The night has already been longer than he wanted, and he hoped to find her and apologize so that they could end the evening on a better note than this. It is not her fault that he has endured the chastisement of the Chantry, the conspiring whispers of the nobility, and the ache of watching her dance with someone else. Neither has any of it has made the night easier, and he fears he lacks the patience to argue the point with her. To kiss her in the middle of the dance floor would have been to tell everyone in attendance that they are a couple, but no matter how much he might want it, they aren’t. 

“To stand in front of those people and kiss you, it’s not a simple matter, and I do not understand why you refuse to accept it when I tell you that. Please, Padi.” He softens his tone and takes another small step towards her side, lowering his eyes. “I came to apologize for the misunderstanding after the dance. I am sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“Misunderstanding. That’s what you think it was.” The realization in her voice is cold and uncomforting. “Those nobles here who aren’t looking to marry you themselves are angling for a marriage for their daughters. If you hadn’t gone into exile, you would’ve been married years ago. You are Starkhaven’s most eligible bachelor, and now they know that the Ferelden refugee you spend your time with is of no real concern.”

When he lifts his gaze she is staring at him, hurt and confusion in her eyes, her brows knit together and her mouth pressed to a thin line. The one friend that he’d hoped to lean on most heavily during this endless night, this beautiful woman who’s made clear time and again that she wants to be with him, and again he’s wounded her, but now he suspects that he’s the one who’s failed to understand.

“Hawke--” He reaches out to take her hand but she snatches it away, folding her arms across her chest, and her eyes go wide in anger. It’s no less than he deserves.

She turns from the window to face the room again. “You said that you wanted me to take the time to figure out what I wanted here in Starkhaven. I know what I want. I have been trying to show you what I want.” She looks away from him, out towards the dance floor. “Maybe you should take your own advice and figure out what you want as well, and if it’s worth whatever cost you think you will incur in order to have it.”

A slap would sting less and leave his mind clearer. She thinks that he refused her because he doesn’t want her. Nothing could be farther from the truth, but there will be no explaining that tonight. It will be a much longer conversation, if it ever happens at all. He may well have ruined it for himself, but that also won’t be decided tonight.

“I apologize again,” he sighs, weary but still sincere. “As I suppose you know, my absence will be conspicuous if I’m gone much longer. Thank you for the pleasure of your company at dinner, and for the dance earlier. You have been the highlight of this night, and I wish you a good evening, Lady Hawke.” He turns on his heel and walks away, face burning, his only goal now to end this night as soon as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	10. Keeping the Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian pays the Chantry a visit to discuss his role with them, and their role in Starkhaven now that he is Prince. It doesn't really go the way that anyone expected.

The heavy, high-backed chairs scrape when pushed away from the table as all assembled stand. “Your Highness,” the Revered Mother starts, “we can’t begin to tell you how glad we are to see you back in the city.”

“Yet not so glad that you didn’t try to bring me here earlier,” Sebastian fires back, sweeping his coat away from his hips as he settles in to his seat at the head of the table. He’d first considered Chantry robes, but after discussions with the others, he decided it would be better to set himself apart from the clergy, at least for this meeting. The authority of an initiated Brother can be called into question. The authority of the Prince, however, can not, and while he hopes that won’t be necessary, it’s just as well to be prepared.

The formal invitation to come to the Chantry arrived the day before the ball, delivered on heavy, expensive paper and sealed with wax that swirled with what Sebastian didn’t doubt was real gold. Along with congratulations on his coronation and gratitude for the invitation to partake in the festivities, the Revered Mother expressed the Chantry’s wishes for a continued close relationship with the Prince, mentioning both his service in Kirkwall and how well she knew his father. The former comes across as a standard sort of platitude, and the latter is something he recalls from his childhood, but mention of it leaves him strangely indifferent, the intent at familiarity too obvious for him to take seriously. Nonetheless, he accepted the invitation, and now finds himself here, in one of the large rooms under the Chantry itself, waiting while the others settle into their seats.

Grand Cleric Margot of Starkhaven sits at his right hand, looking none too pleased at his apparent lack of gratitude. She is newly promoted after the loss of Elthina in Kirkwall, and if she was eager to make a good first impression, then she is even more bitter to have failed. Her heavily lined face is fixed in a frown, most likely only to keep from slipping into an even more dour expression. With them around the sturdy, dark wooden table are several high-ranking members of the Starkhaven Chantry, older women with greying hair in severe buns or braids, their identical robes making it that much more difficult to tell them apart. Along with them, they’ve brought a couple of younger women, Sisters or Initiates, likely only meant to listen and observe. At the far end, the Knight-Commander of the Templars in Starkhaven is flanked by no less than six of his knights, fully armored, standing along the wall. It would be an impressive display of power for anyone who’d not been to Kirkwall and fought them firsthand. Perhaps Sebastian isn’t the only one with an agenda for today’s meeting.

Sebastian clears his throat and tries again, wanting to be diplomatic. He does have demands, but it’s too early for him to start with them. This, however, is something else entirely.

“Grand Cleric Elthina received notice of my family’s deaths from this Chantry, yet no one came to find me,” he reminds them. It’s a point that has bothered him since he arrived in the city, chafing at the back of his mind and demanding to be addressed. He has no desire to dwell on it, knowing that whatever the Chantry answers, it will change nothing, and yet he finds he can not leave it unexpressed.

Margot shifts in her seat. “Yes, well, you had just been invested, we didn’t want to--”

He sets a hand on hers and gives her a perfunctory smile. “It is no matter. I am here now.” He interrupts because they have no explanation that would be good enough. For him, the importance lies not in their reasons, but in reminding them that they did not bring him here and have had no hand in his retaking the throne. He could have been locked away in the Chantry in Starkhaven, kept close to his family, but instead he was exiled to the other end of the Free Marches, and not even called on when his family was killed. She claims to have known his father well, and yet there was no letter of condolence. He has not forgotten, and so he will not let them forget.

“I understand you wanted to meet with me,” he offers, his tone as warm and conciliatory as he can muster. He must remind himself that he wants this meeting to go well, and for that, he needs to control his temper.

“Yes, Your Highness.” All assembled relax into their chairs, likely glad to move on from the first confrontation. “We wanted to start by thanking you for your invitation to the ball last week. The Chantry is so seldom remembered in such matters, and it was truly a beautiful evening for all of us. We are so pleased to see a member of the faithful back on the throne--”

“My cousin Goran is an Andrastian, is he not?”

Margot pauses, caught out. “Well, yes, technically.”

This time he doesn’t say anything by means of reply, just raises his eyebrows and waits for them to find a way of accusing Goran of being less pious than the Prince that was exiled from the kingdom for spending too much time in brothels. No such explanation comes, and after a long moment he sighs.

“Let’s start again, shall we?” Sebastian offers, again making an effort to keep the meeting cordial. “I’m glad we’re able to meet, even though we seem to be stumbling in our attempts to start off on the right foot. Grand Cleric Margot was most gracious to extend an invitation after the ball, but I don’t believe we’ve met, Knight-Commander?”

“Lawrent, Your Highness.” He’s younger than Sebastian would have imagined for a Knight-Commander, with a wild beard that brushes his armor when he speaks, though the hair on his head is shorn short, almost to the skin. He watches Sebastian with dark eyes full of suspicion that can be read from across the room. Some part of Sebastian’s reputation for working with the Champion of Kirkwall has reached his hometown, then; he finds he doesn’t mind, if it means that one person in the room knows he is not so easily manipulated into place.

“A pleasure, Knight-Commander. I look forward to making the rest of your acquaintances soon.”

One of the Initiates giggles, though it’s quickly swallowed, and when Sebastian looks, her hand is over her mouth. He flashes her a grin to hear her gasp. Whatever charm he has left still has its uses, and while it’s not how he wants to win support here today, he finds he can’t overlook the opportunity to show the others how easily won some support can be. 

Sebastian returns to addressing the room. “I’ve not been Prince long officially, I suppose, but I’ve lived in the city for a while now, and I have some questions that I think you’ll be most helpful in answering.” 

The clergy shift uncomfortably across the table from him. As he’d suspected, they had planned to be the ones asking questions. They will have their time when he is satisfied. Fostering a good relationship goes in both directions, and Sebastian suspects that the Chantry have become accustomed to be the ones setting the agenda, expecting the Prince to come to them. He is not unwilling to bend, but he also knows well what can happen when a Chantry’s power goes unquestioned for too long. He will not watch from the sidelines and allow Starkhaven to go the way that Kirkwall has, not when he has the power to stop it.

He clears his throat and rests his forearms on the table in front of him, lacing his fingers together. “Starkhaven’s Circle was destroyed in a fire almost a decade ago, and yet I have seen no indication that a new one is being constructed, or even planned.” He looks around the table as he speaks, meeting the eyes of all those who are willing to look back at him, ending with the Knight-Commander.

Lawrent leans forward, setting one arm on the table to look past the others at Sebastian. “After the explosion in Kirkwall, we haven’t--”

Sebastian silences him with a look, eyes widening just enough to serve as a warning.  _ I’ve not taken offense yet, but continue and I will.  _ Lawrent’s tone bordered on condescending, as if Sebastian wasn’t standing on the street in the city when the Chantry was destroyed.

“There were  _ years  _ between the fire in Starkhaven and the attack in Kirkwall, Knight-Commander. Years in which I witnessed the Kirkwall Circle being pressed into service for far more mages than it should have had to care for, forced to house those our city could no longer hold. How many mages will never be located, with their phylacteries burned and their whereabouts unknown after the fire? How many of our own have we failed to protect?”

The Sisters look back and forth, each expecting the other to answer him, all of them glancing nervously at the Templars. The Knight-Commander glares at him with undisguised hostility, and Sebastian holds an equal measure of rancor in his own gaze. He suspects none of them are used to hearing mages included among those who need to be protected, and no doubt some of them saw the fire as a boon, allowing them to rid the city of their presence.

Sebastian continues, his voice cold and level despite the anger growing in him. “Were you unaware of the troubles in Kirkwall?” One hand curls into a fist where it rests on the table, his other arm drawn in closer to his body.

“No,” one of them says. “We knew of them, but--”

“That was in Kirkwall,” a younger Sister fills in, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Sebastian sighs. It is the answer he expected, and he is disappointed. “And now every mage in the Free Marches is in danger, because of the actions of one madman.”

“The  _ mages  _ are in danger?” The Revered Mother doesn’t even bother to disguise her sneer.

“Yes,” he hisses, “and they have been for some time.” He won’t be the first to sink to disregarding common courtesy, even if her demeanor tempts him, and so he pauses, takes a breath. He knew this would be difficult, but failed to anticipate the strength of his emotions. “They will be hunted as retribution for the destruction of Kirkwall’s Chantry, even if the man responsible is already dead. They are also the Maker’s children, and Starkhaven has failed to help them. If anything, the Chantry has aided in their oppression.”

This goes over as expected, and the Grand Cleric shoots to her feet, her chair squeaking as it shudders across the floor behind her. “Your Highness, the Chant of Light clearly states--”

“Do not presume to speak to me of the Chant, Your Grace,” Sebastian grits out, refusing to rise to her bait by also getting to his feet. It’s a show of disrespect on her part, and he will not do her the courtesy of excusing it by standing as well. “‘ _ Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker _ .’ The oppression of mages in Kirkwall stemmed from the fears of men, not the will of the Maker. And the Templar Order is the creation of the Chantry, not the Chant itself. What happened in Kirkwall might have been stopped if the Chantry had taken an active role. I will not allow that to be the fate of Starkhaven as well.” He is done arguing this point. “Resources will be allocated immediately for the reconstruction of our Circle. Until building is complete, mages will be housed at the city barracks.”

The Sister scoffs. “There are no mages in Starkhaven.”

“And yet there are Templars, Sister.” He turns his gaze from her to Knight-Commander sitting at the other end of the table. 

“We sent Knight-Captain Rylen with a third of them to Kirkwall to help with the fallout of the attack,” Lawrent replies. “We are undermanned, Your Highness.”

Sebastian shakes his head. “Kirkwall needs more Templars like I need a hole in my boot, Knight-Commander. And for all that you say you’ve sent a third of them south, I still see Templars on every street. Quite the presence the Circle’s guards maintain for a city with no Circle.” There is venom on his tongue that would not have been there even a year before. Sebastian is surprised by the passion of his own reaction until he thinks of Meredith and the Rite of Annulment, of Orsino’s desperate flight to the Gallows to protect those mages he could from those who are meant to protect them. Of Bethany’s ever-scanning eyes. And of Aveline, and Donnic. They are the ones who need reinforcements now, not the Templars.

“Look around Starkhaven,” Sebastian urges, gesturing broadly even though the room has no windows. “If you were an apostate, would you feel safe here, knowing that turning yourself in to the Templars would mean being sent to Kirkwall? And how are we to know if there are mages, Sister, when we have no phylacteries to track them?” He settles back into the chair, looking from the Grand Cleric to the Knight-Commander and back. “I would like word sent out as soon as possible that all mages are welcome return to Starkhaven if they wish.”

“And those that do not wish to?” It’s not the Knight-Commander that asks, but one of the Templars along the wall. She reminds him of Aveline, carved out of duty and honor, the same fiery hair but with icy blue eyes and a scar along her jaw. Lawrent turns to look at her and she freezes up, stands to attention again, but her eyes never leave Sebastian as she waits for her answer.

Sebastian is silent for a moment. “We do not have the resources necessary to find all apostates right now. Our first priority needs to be rebuilding the Circle to give those mages who would freely return somewhere they can live. Let us start by welcoming those who wish to come, and serve as an example to the other cities of the Free Marches. If the Circle is run well, perhaps there will be no need for mages to run _from_ it.”

“And who do you presume will run this Circle, Your Highness?” The Knight-Commander keeps his voice low, yet it resonates in the room around them. “We can not just give the title of First Enchanter to the first apostate to surrender.”

This, Sebastian has considered, and he has to fight to keep from grinning as he answers, delighted to be able to reply immediately. “Lady Bethany Hawke, Knight-Commander.”

Lawrent sits back in his chair so hard that it creaks, his jaw working under his beard. “That appointment is usually handled by me, Your Highness, though I will consider your recommendation.”

“Lady Hawke is from a noble family, trained for years in the Kirkwall Circle after voluntarily surrendering herself, and is the younger sister of the Champion of Kirkwall. Given the lack of  _ mages  _ in Starkhaven--” He glances at the Sister who’d spoken earlier, then back to Lawrent. “You’ll hardly find anyone with better qualifications, and I would stake my crown that she has never used blood magic. She is an exemplary mage and a remarkable woman, and you would be lucky to have her as First Enchanter.”

Sebastian’s tone leaves little room for argument, particularly when it is unlikely the Knight-Commander has a candidate of his own. Lawrent settles lower in his seat, arms folded over his chest, glowering.

“Very well, Your Highness.” Margot’s tired sigh holds an undercurrent of irritation.“However, this is not why we hoped to speak with you.” 

It’s a weak attempt to wrest the discussion from his hands, but while Sebastian is far from satisfied, he finds himself now more open to listening to what they had in mind. It’s not like Chantry officials to request a meeting in order to be scolded, but he is not interested in waiting to start using his new title and authority to do good in the city.

“Perhaps not, but they are some of the questions that I had for you. I rather hoped that this meeting would be an exchange,” he replies archly. “By all means, Grand Cleric, how can I be of service to the Chantry?”

Margot appears almost surprised to have the pendulum swing her way so quickly. Her smile is affected and her eyes a little too wide, enough to set him on edge. “Oh, thank you, Your Highness. Of course we’re grateful to meet with you, Starkhaven can only benefit from cooperation between crown and Chantry. Please understand, Your Highness, we do not wish to intrude, but to offer guidance.”

“There is no precedent for a sworn Brother or Sister to be in place as royalty,” one of the older Sisters continues. 

“I look forward to helping the city prosper. The Chantry has the opportunity to be a real force for good here,” Sebastian replies, unsure where they are headed with the conversation. They’re nervous about whatever it is they plan to tell him, and it creeps over his skin as well, tickling at the hair at the back of his neck.

Margot nods, still cautious. “As do we, sir. For real change to happen, though, for it to be lasting, there is the matter of your successor.”

The room goes quiet as Sebastian stares across the table at them, each in turn until, this time, he stops at the Grand Cleric. One of the Templars shifts their weight and the sound of metal on metal fills the space. 

“I’ve been on the throne barely more than a week and you’re already thinking about my replacement, Margot?” His tone is clipped and artificially bright as he tries to convince himself that they aren’t talking about what they are clearly preparing to talk about. It’s no mistake on his part, using her name rather than her title. If she means to intrude into the most private parts of his faith with this line of questioning, then he will not afford her the respect of her station. It’s not her intention to be so familiar and he knows it, sees it flicker in her eyes when he says her name.

“Not at all, Your Highness,” she rushes to reply, setting extra weight on the title. “We are simply aware of the vows that Initiates take, and how these might be problematic when it comes to producing an heir.”

“I hardly see how that is the Chantry’s concern.” Sebastian pinches the bridge of his nose as an excuse to close his eyes, and he takes a deep breath, an ache settling at his temples and behind his eyes. There is too little air in the room for this conversation, and what air there is is stale and smells of old incense and the oil the Templars use to polish their armor.

When Margot continues, it’s clear in her voice that she is trying to be gentle. It’s likely she has no real desire to discuss this with him either, and he wonders who in the room decided that it was a subject that needed broaching. “The Vael family has ruled here for many generations, and always with a strong bond to the Chantry, never less so than now. We would like to see this partnership continue.” She clears her throat. “As we mentioned, there is no precedent for a Brother to also be a Prince. This means that the vows are not designed for someone who might need to consider the necessity of children.”

“A vow is a promise. It’s not designed,” he answers, swallowing to keep his voice from rising. “I left the Chantry once. I won’t do it again.”

“Nor are we asking you to, Your Highness!” She reaches out as if to set a hand on his arm only to think better of it, her fingers settling on the tabletop near him. “On the contrary, we are offering you the opportunity to stay within the Chantry while still tending to your duties as Prince.” Margot all but spits the last words out.

“You’re suggesting I just set aside one of my holy vows because it’s  _ inconvenient _ ?” He pushes his chair back from the table, and the others rush to stand, only to settle into their chairs again when he does not rise. “I denied my vows once already, for a cause far greater than some theoretical child to help the Chantry keep their hold on the crown of Starkhaven. I will not stray from this path again, nor will I forget that this congregation saw this as a fit suggestion.”

Sebastian can feel the heat of his skin, and he pauses, taking a sip of the water in front of him, anything to give him a moment to calm his nerves. As if Hawke’s interest and willingness wasn’t enough, he now has to contend with the Chantry offering him a loophole on his vows. His pulse pounds in his ears, and he runs a hand over his face, scrubbing at his chin and jaw. He could not be less interested in their permission, and the thought of having his promise taken away alarms him. He will not let himself be forced to do this.

“... be the Champion, then.” 

Sebastian doesn’t hear all of whatever the Templar whispered, but they failed to take into account the acoustics of the room. His eyes flick up, all thought of his own troubles set aside at the mention of Hawke. He still stings from the way that they’d parted at the ball, and will not miss an opportunity to defend her here today if that’s what’s needed. He didn’t anticipate talking about her at all, but given those assembled, he doubts they mean to praise her.

“What about the Champion?” Sebastian sets the goblet down again, fingers resting on the rim as he scans the room for the source of the voice. He’s almost certain he knows which Templar it was - the poor boy is barely tall enough to fit his armor and his face is crimson - but bringing Hawke to the city was sure to raise opinions, and the recruit is likely only repeating what he’s heard elsewhere.

From the Knight-Commander, apparently, as Lawrent glares at the boy, then swings around to look at Sebastian again. “Was it wise, Your Highness, to bring her to Starkhaven and show her off in such a manner?”

“The Champion of Kirkwall is a noble lady by birth as well as by her deeds, but any showing off she may have done had little to do with me, I’m afraid.” He tilts the goblet and rolls it along the table on the edge of its base, savoring the way that the sound cuts through the air. Let them ask about his heirs, and he will answer their humiliating questions and refuse their offers. He will bear it, but if they intend to come for Hawke, he will leave no room for diplomacy. 

Thinking about her brings up unsettled thoughts about the evening of the ball, and his harsh behavior towards her. He has had no opportunity yet to make amends, duty and timing and perhaps Hawke herself working to make sure that they haven’t seen each other since. He misses her, and this discussion only serves to make him want to leave as soon as possible to find her, even if he’s not sure what he’ll say when he does.

“She blew up a Chantry!” The Knight-Commander protests, and this time his voice booms as he intends. “She killed the Grand Cleric!”

At that Sebastian does stand, leaning over the table to point at the Knight-Commander. “She did no such thing, and you know it, and if you speak such lies in front of me again I’ll have your title, Lawrent.” Several of the clergy draw back when he hisses, not wanting to be caught in the crossfire between the Templar and the Prince.

“Your Highness.” Margot tries instead, now setting her hand ever so gently on his arm. From the right person, it might feel maternal, but in this setting and at this moment, it’s patronizing. Sebastian stares down at it, lifting his eyes to look at her when she speaks. “We only fear that her presence here might invite revolt, as it did in Kirkwall, or worse, that the Divine will turn her eye on Starkhaven in her search for this woman. We do not want an Exalted March upon the Free Marches.”

“There will be no Exalted March,” he replies smoothly, though it’s a small comfort to be able to tell her that. When she looks ready to protest, he continues. “Do you really think that I would risk the life of someone so dear to me by announcing her by name if the Divine was hunting her? No, on that point you can all rest assured. I have it on excellent authority that there will be no March.”

“What authority?” Lawrent demands.

“ _ Excellent _ ,” Sebastian replies darkly as he sits again, back straight and head held high. It would likely help his argument to tell them of the letter from Sister Nightingale, but he does not want his word to be based on the authority of others. They must believe him because he is who he is, not because of who sends letters to him. 

“And for that matter, she did not incite revolt,” Sebastian continues. “She sought a peaceful solution to the conflict for as long as she could, and fought only when provoked by other forces, including the Knight-Commander of the Templars,” he adds with a glare at Lawrent. “If there are any other rumors that need to be addressed, let me remind you that I walked the streets of the city with her and witnessed her deeds firsthand.”

Margot huffs, and when he looks at her, he sees uncertainty in her eyes. “We have heard of how she attempted to negotiate with the Qunari. Most unseemly, having such dealings with them.”

“The Qunari are a proud people and were robbed of a precious artifact. They were in Kirkwall searching for it, as they could not return home without it. Had they told Hawke this directly, we might have assisted in the search. As it was, the situation ended unfavorably for everyone involved.” Sebastian has no way of knowing if the Chantry here has any knowledge of what transpired with Sister Petrice and the Saarebas, but he cannot help but be reminded, as they seek to imply that Hawke’s working with them should somehow lessen her reputation.

“So much for your Champion’s diplomacy.” Lawrent sneers, shifting in his chair, quite proud of his remark.

“She put her trust in them and did what she could to help them. That they could not trust her fully is no fault of hers.”

Again Margot sets a hand on his arm, and this time Sebastian does move away. “Sebastian--”

“The term of address is Your Highness, Your Grace.” This meeting is drawing to an end, he decides, whether those who invited him here know it or not.

“Your Highness. We are merely concerned for you.” Her tone borders on condescending, and Sebastian turns to look at with pursed lips and narrowed eyes. “You can’t expect that people will not make assumptions regarding your piety when you are seen consorting with an enemy of the Chantry.”

In a way, he is grateful that they’ve finally gotten to the root of their concerns, even if he finds their arguments wholly unconvincing. “Consorting?” The word sparks at the back of his mind, the memory of the Chantry Chancellor who approached him at the ball still fresh.

Margot nods, and he wonders if she knows that she’s repeating the exact same argument that the Chancellor made. “Sitting next to you at dinner, dancing. As Prince your faith is a very public matter, you must be beyond reproach.”

He feels the question on his tongue:  _ Did you send her, or did she report back to you about what we discussed _ ? As it is, the Chancellor isn’t there to defend herself, and he is more interested in leaving than he is in further antagonizing the clergy and Knight-Commander.

“I can think of no one better to have at my side, if the goal is to show my intention to lead and protect this city, which it is.” Sebastian lets his weariness with all of them flow into his voice. He is not for a moment tired of defending Hawke, but they are not prepared to listen, and in this matter they are opponents not worth engaging. He will win against them either way. “I forgive you all your misconceptions, as you have yet to make Lady Hawke’s acquaintance, but I assure you that you are all wrong about her.” 

This time when he stands, they all rise, and he steps away from the chair, nodding his head in a curt bow to the Knight-Commander and the Revered Mother.

“I have no more time for this discussion today. Thank you for the invitation. May you walk in the Maker’s light until we meet again.” He doesn’t wait to hear their muttered blessings to him before turning and making his way to the door, into the nave of the church. 

He finds Fenris with his head bowed, resting on his hands where they’re clasped together on the back of the pew in front of him. He looks up at the sound of Sebastian’s approach, rising in time to slip out into the aisle and walk beside him. Sebastian hadn’t meant to interrupt him, and he will be poor company for the walk, but he is nonetheless grateful to have someone with him as he makes his way back to the Keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eagle-eyed readers may notice that Sebastian uses a slightly reworked version of one of Anders' dialogue lines. I like to imagine that at least some of what he said got through. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	11. The Other Hand of the Divine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sister Nightingale reassured Sebastian there would be no Exalted March, but that doesn't mean the hunt for the Champion of Kirkwall is over.

_ To: HRH Prince Sebastian Vael of Starkhaven _

_ Your Highness, _

_ Please allow me to congratulate you on your official coronation. I have some knowledge of the matter involving your family and wish to offer my condolences as well as my hope that Starkhaven will prosper under your reign. _

_ This, however, is not my only reason for writing. It has come to my attention via several sources that Padi Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, was in attendance at your coronation and at events afterward. The Seekers of Truth have been unsuccessful thus far in finding Lady Hawke after the mage rebellion in Kirkwall, and there are pressing matters which only she can assist with. This is a matter of utmost importance to the Divine herself. _

_ As a fellow member of the Chantry, I hope that you can understand the necessity of putting Lady Hawke in contact with the Seekers of Truth, or with me specifically. I would greatly appreciate your expeditious help in this matter and look forward to your reply.  _

_ Walk in the Maker’s Light _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Seeker Cassandra A.P.C.F. Pentaghast _

  
  
  
  


_ To: Lady Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast _

_ Your Seekerness, _

_ Prince Sebastian thanks you for your letter, and for your warm sentiments. We also wish to apologize for the lateness of this reply, but matters of state have kept us from being timely with our correspondence.  _

_ As for your inquiry into the whereabouts of Lady Hawke, we must insist that we can not be of assistance. At last count, there were no less than twelve Hawkes in Starkhaven alone, most of them turning out to be frauds in search of hollow fame and free ale at the local taverns. It is most likely that the tales of the coronation and ball stem from these false accounts. _

_ We hope this information has not disrupted your mission, and encourage you to continue searching in Kirkwall, the long-time home of the Champion. _

_ May the Maker smile upon you _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Prince Sebastian Vael, transcribed by Varric Tethras, interim Royal Scribe _

  
  


Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast is a severe-looking woman with sharp brows, dark kohl around deep violet eyes, and a scar along her cheek that draws Sebastian’s attention, even from a distance. Her gait as she approaches is not quite a strut, but filled with purpose and certainty. She carries her helm under one arm and rests her other hand on the pommel of her sword when she comes to a stop at the foot of the stairs leading up to his throne. Her armor bears the blazing eye symbol of the Seekers of Truth, an organization within the Chantry, granted special investigative powers.

The story behind the scar is likely fascinating, but there will be no time to discuss it today. Idle conversation is not why The Seeker has come, nor is she here in her normal duties - policing Templars and catching particularly troublesome apostates. Her reason for coming is tied to the missive she sent, in search of someone neither Templar nor mage, someone Sebastian would protect with his life. Someone he thought he had protected.

The letter from Sister Nightingale about the Exalted March led him to believe that Hawke was safe in Starkhaven, no longer hunted and free to be herself within the city. He never imagined that others could still be interested in her, or at least not to the degree that they would come to Starkhaven in search of her. Standing in the presence of one Hand of the Divine, he regrets not asking the other for more reassurance. The arrival of Seeker Pentaghast is bitter evidence of his miscalculation, and as he readies himself for the impending conversation, he replays the night of the ball in his mind, just as he has many times since receiving the Seeker’s message. He could’ve given Hawke any number of names that night, but he was so proud of keeping her secret and wanting her to know, so pleased with the idea that he’d kept her from danger. 

Sebastian stands as Cassandra enters the throne room, folding his hands behind his back and giving her the most serene smile that he can muster. He hoped the letter would be enough to keep her from coming to Starkhaven, but it appears to have had the opposite effect, bringing her here with surprising speed. As much as he is tempted to blame it on Varric’s flippant tone, he might also have expected this visit regardless. Seekers are not selected for their duties due to being easily dissuaded. 

The information about fake Hawkes was true in part, though the number of them greatly inflated. Isabela suggested finding one of them to turn over to the Inquisition, but Hawke shot down the idea before Sebastian even had the opportunity to protest, and her reservations were the same as his, that no one else should have to suffer for their actions. For his part, however, Sebastian took the blame entirely upon himself. He brought this down on Hawke and the rest of them with his carelessness, and it is up to him to stand between them and the Seeker now, to make sure she goes from Starkhaven empty-handed and uninterested in returning.

“Lady Seeker,” Sebastian calls to her as she approaches the throne. “I do wish you’d let us know that you were coming. We would have made arrangements for your arrival.” He nods his head in deference to her title. It’s not quite a bow, but she’ll get little more out of him than that. Even if the circumstances were different, he would have taken issue with a Seeker of the Chantry appearing at his door with an armed escort. “Would you like something to drink?”

Her eyebrow twitches as she gazes back at him. “ _ You _ would have made sure that the Champion and her family were out of the city if I’d told you I was coming.”

She’s right, but he’s not about to tell her that. Instead, he raises his eyebrows and blinks slowly, the picture of innocence. It won’t do to exaggerate; the Seeker is far too clever for those sorts of tricks. There are rumors that they have powers similar to those of Templars; not something Sebastian is interested in putting to the test. So he smiles, softening his expression to something more open and curious. 

“As I understand it, Seeker, you need Hawke for help with this Inquisition the Chantry is putting together.” The Inquisition is not mentioned directly in the letter that he holds up as he speaks, but Sebastian is also a member of the Chantry, and while his rank of Brother may not afford him special privileges, a Prince can get answers to questions that might otherwise lead to dead ends. He was unable to find out who it was that gave the Seekers information about Hawke, but even knowing Cassandra’s purpose was enough, and he finds some small grim satisfaction in the way her eyes cut to look at him. The mention of the Inquisition catches her off-guard. Sebastian arches one eyebrow to let her see that he sees and let her know that he knows, and hopefully leave her wondering what else he is aware of that she didn’t plan on.

She nods curtly as she recovers her calm, shifting her weight as a soldier at ease, preparing to stand in place for however long it takes for her to get what she wants. “That is correct. I-- We want her to lead it. She is the only one who can.”

He fights to keep from grinning at the statement. It is a shame that Hawke’s value should be recognized under such circumstances, when there is not a chance that she will be involved. “And what is it that makes you think that she is fit to lead your Inquisition?”

Cassandra clears her throat. “It is not my Inquisition, Your Highness. This writ comes from the Divine herself. I am simply overseeing the formation of it.”

He waits, doing his best to appear infinitely patient. She has not answered the question, and he suspects that they both know it. It is unfortunate that they should meet for the first time under these circumstances. She is every bit a woman that he could admire if she hadn’t come to the Keep with the intention of taking Hawke back with her.

"I was under the impression that the Chantry thought Hawke was a criminal, responsible for the destruction in Kirkwall.” It pains him to put it that way, but Hawke will never hear it, and it’s Cassandra he needs to convince. “So I ask again, Lady Seeker, what is it that makes her the leader you’re looking for?”

“I do not believe that the highest officials within the Chantry know the full story.” Emotion creeps into her voice as she speaks, and she shifts her weight again, taking a step, then another as she makes her case. “I am not certain that I do, either, but I have been to Kirkwall. I was there before as well, looking into allegations of misconduct on the part of the Templars. We found their actions to be justified at the time. We didn’t look closely enough, but The Champion was there, and everything I have heard tells me that she fought to keep the city safe, to keep things under control for as long as she could.”

She speaks as if delivering a report to a superior. This is likely not the first time she’s had to justify her pursuit of Hawke to someone standing in her way, and were it anyone else, he might even be convinced.

“So, she acted outside the law, was involved in what many are calling the act of a fanatic, and you want her to lead this Inquisition?” He looks down his nose at her with haughty skepticism, determined to play the ruse out for as long as she intends to stay.

She huffs, looking at him as if he is a child. “She was at the center of the mage-Templar conflict in the city. Who better to help stop the war that is brewing between them?”

“I see.” Sebastian pulls down the corners of his mouth and nods as if convinced, rather than frustrated that the Seeker sees Hawke as a tool to be used, or a weapon to be wielded. “And yet you hunt her as if she were a common criminal.”

“Because she will not show herself!” Her voice rings off the high walls and she draws a breath, pausing before continues, her even tone restored. “It is her duty to come to the Chantry’s aid.”

“Is it? As far as I am aware, she’s sworn no vows. The Maker requires nothing of us but our love.”

Cassandra sighs, shaking her head and turning away from him. They are both pacing now, the cavernous room somehow still too small for the two of them. 

“Hawke is not in Starkhaven,” Sebastian offers carefully. “I had hoped that that was clear from my letter.”

“Your--” She blows a breath out through her nose, and the sound comes close to a growl. “That is another thing, Your Highness. I would like to speak with Varric Tethras as well, if he is here.”

Sebastian shrugs. “He might be, but I have no control over him. I can’t command him to talk to you.” It’s not a demand he was expecting, but he is not prepared to turn anyone over to the Seekers. None of them have done anything so wrong as to warrant it, and Cassandra has shown no need for any of them to be interrogated.

“Of course you can,” she fires back, incredulous. “You’re the Prince of Starkhaven!”

“It’s good to hear that you know that,” he replies brightly at first, his tone turning heavier and drier as he continues. “I was starting to wonder if you’d forgotten whose Keep you were standing in.”

Cassandra steps forward to set one foot on the steps before the throne. “You are hiding something. Witnesses saw her in the throne room after your coronation!”

“Witnesses saw a guard with a longbow,” he corrects her, a note of condescension creeping in as he knits his brows. “Am I to remove all longbows from the city? Forbid helms to help you find her? People have vivid imaginations and see what they want to see.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “You are being most inhospitable, Your Highness.”

Sebastian tilts his head down to look where she’s standing, finger pointed at him as if she has any rights in this room other than the ones he is giving her. He lifts his eyes but not his chin when he meets her electric gaze again. “On the contrary, Seeker. I have extended you every courtesy, given that I have already informed you that what you seek is not here.” His k’s and t’s click as he fires each word at her.

He throws his arms wide, turning in place with his head thrown back. “Feel free to search the Keep, you'll not find her.” He comes to a stop and faces Cassandra again, his arms falling to his side. Maintaining this charade is tiring, and he wants little more than for her to go. “And might I suggest, to aid you in your seeking, that you consider what the Champion of Kirkwall has already gone through. The Blight cost her her family home. Kirkwall took everything from her - her mother, her lover, her second home. She is not a soldier like you, nor royalty like me. She is only a woman who wanted to find some peace and somewhere to live her life. I hope she has. Can your Inquisition offer her that?”

The unspoken question lingers in his mind -  _ can he truly offer her that, either? _ And if it shows in some softening of his expression, then it escapes Cassandra’s notice. 

“This is about what Hawke can do for the Inquisition, not the other way around, Your Highness.”

“And that is why you will never find her, Lady Seeker.” Sebastian shakes his head. “You can not hunt someone this way and not expect them to react as if they are being hunted. If you think you need her, then you should say so, and wait for her to come to you. Hawke is a woman who wants to help. It is her finest quality, but you are not acting like someone in need of help. You are acting like someone who means to hurt her, and she has had enough of being hurt.” 

It’s not quite pity he feels for her but something similar, when he hears how profoundly she misunderstands Hawke, and how that will hinder her on this mission. “Now, will you be staying to have a look around, or are you finally satisfied that I am telling you the truth when I say that Hawke is not in Starkhaven Keep?”

“I understand, Prince Sebastian.” Her bow is crisp and formal, and he tilts his head in reply. “Thank you for your courtesy.”

“Go in the Maker’s Light, Seeker Cassandra. I wish you a pleasant journey home.”

She makes a disgusted noise in reply as she turns and walks back up the carpet to the high, wide doors at the end of the room, still standing open. Her escort falls into step on either side of her when she crosses the threshold, and when Sebastian is sure that they will not turn back to look, he glances up and nods to Isabela where she stands in the shadows of the mezzanine. She slips away, off into the city to find Hawke and the others and secret them back to the safety of the Keep.

Hawke appears hours later, and when Sebastian sees her, he can breathe properly again, even if it is only for a moment as she slips through the kitchen with Varric and Bethany behind her. It had been a narrow escape, sending her out a back exit from the Keep as the Seeker was climbing the stairs to the courtyard, but it worked, better than Sebastian dared to hoped. There were no lies: when he said was not in the Keep, it was true. Varric and Bethany accompanied her, both to make sure that she was not alone, and to keep them away from the Seekers as well. Had Cassandra stayed to search the fortress, she would have found no conclusive evidence that Padi Hawke or the others lived here. Sebastian could not have told Cassandra where Hawke was, even if he’d wanted to; that was a part of the plan, in case the Seekers took to less than dignified means of attempting to locate her. 

Sebastian spent the hours between the Seekers’ departure and Hawke’s return in troubled contemplation. The visit raised questions that left him unsettled. It’s difficult to believe that the Right Hand of the Divine would cross Thedas based on the rumors of some gossiping nobles, and he can’t say that he’s surprised Varric’s letter failed to convince her. His thoughts return again and again to his meeting with the Chantry and their arguments against having Hawke in the city. Could the Knight-Commander, Grand Cleric, or one of the others believe that they were acting in the Chantry’s best interests, telling the Seekers where to find Hawke? Sebastian was quite clear with them that Hawke was welcome in Starkhaven, and at his side, no matter what they thought of the arrangement. Could someone really have gone to such lengths to try to remove her? Part of him wants to investigate, to find the source of the message to the Seekers and see to it that they can not interfere again, but part of him doesn’t care. If this was to be a test of his authority, then he passed when Cassandra left the Keep empty-handed. If this was a threat to him or to Hawke, then surely this would demonstrate that he will protect her and put himself between her and danger. And if the party that summoned the Seekers genuinely believed that they were acting for the good of Starkhaven, then they were simply wrong, and time will show them that. As the evening draws in, Sebastian is unsure how - or if - he will deal with this, but he is certain that he will continue to protect Hawke however he can. 

Cassandra Pentaghast’s visit has one more unfortunate consequence, however. That she sought Hawke was dangerous, but the news that she also wanted to speak to Varric was the last straw. There are many good reasons for Varric to stay in Starkhaven, but the reasons for him to return to Kirkwall are that much greater. After the ball, they said one more day, and then one more, but with the Seekers coming to Starkhaven, so close to Hawke, there are no more days. 

Sebastian stops at the top of the stairs, stepping off to one side, taking in the scene below as Hawke and Bethany say goodbye. 

This is not a moment that he has any right to be a part of. Even observing feels wrong, but he knows that Varric has seen him, and Sebastian doesn’t want to let him leave without some sort of farewell on his part. They were not always the closest of friends, but Sebastian respects him, and knows the depth of his regard and love for Hawke. Their own goodbye came earlier, not long after Varric’s return to the Keep.

_ “Someone’s gotta get the Seeker away from Starkhaven, Choir Boy. And it’s time I got back to Kirkwall, anyway. Your city’s never been a favorite of mine. I already said once I was gonna go, but I don't have to tell you Hawke's a hard woman to leave.” _

_ He can’t argue with Varric’s logic, and he has no right to stop him, even if Sebastian is disappointed to think that he will leave so abruptly. “You’re not afraid the Seekers will find you if you go?” _

_ Varric shakes his head. “I almost hope they will. They want to know about Hawke, I can tell them all kinds of stories.” _

Varric sets his pack down and the three of them embrace. For a long time, they’re still, and if anything is being said, then Sebastian can’t hear it. It’s just as well. 

Bethany pulls away first, wiping at her eyes. Varric’s voice is indistinct, but Bethany laughs, nodding and looking at her sister. She leans down and presses a kiss to Varric’s forehead, combing a loose bit of hair back into his ponytail before stepping back.

Hawke is more composed when Varric turns to look at her. More than ten years of partnership are written on her face when she smiles at him, soft and understanding. His leaving has nothing to do with her, and yet everything. To be safe, he has to leave his best friend behind, and she has to let him go. 

They talk quietly, and when Hawke laughs it’s short, little more than an exhale as she shakes her head. Varric reaches up and catches her cheek, forcing her to look at him, and as he drags his thumb along the lower line of her scar, they both go still. Sebastian’s heart breaks for her, but there is nothing he can say that would be welcome here; even Bethany is silent as she watches them.

Varric picks up his pack and wraps his free arm around her one more time. Hawke cards her fingers through his hair, leaving her hand on his shoulder until he moves. He steps back and picks up her hand, bowing to kiss it before letting her go. The smile that she gives him is brave and broken, and short-lived, and the nod she gives him is shaky.

The door opens, and Sebastian can only just see the carriage waiting outside that will carry him back to Kirkwall. Varric turns and looks, past Hawke and up the stairs, right at Sebastian as if he’d known exactly where he was standing this whole time. His nod is subtle, but Sebastian returns it. He will look after Hawke. He can not be what Varric is for her, nor would he think to try. Their bond is unique and unbreakable, and will hold even with the distance between them. Nevertheless, Sebastian aches for them, frustrated at his own powerlessness and his inability to protect those closest to him. They are all smart enough to know that this is for the best, but knowing does not make it easier to say goodbye. 

Reports from Kirkwall are mixed, even if Aveline’s letters have indicated a return to stability, and Varric is a resourceful man with connections and the ability to protect himself. Still, Sebastian will worry until the first letter arrives that Varric is home safely, and he will worry about Hawke for far longer than that. 

Bethany moves to her sister’s side as Varric steps through the door and makes his way down the steps. If there are last looks or waves, then Sebastian can no longer see them. He hears the distant clatter of horses’ hooves on the stones outside the courtyard as the door closes, and Bethany pulls her sister into a tight hug. Hawke rubs her back, and Bethany fists her hands in the fabric of her sister’s shirt as she sobs. Even from his vantage point, Sebastian can hear her, and tears prick his eyes as well. He had hoped that when they got to Starkhaven, it would be the end of loss for all of them. 

Hawke finally lets her sister go, smoothing her hair and keeping a hand on her arm as Bethany wipes at her face with her sleeve. Hawke turns, her icy gaze finding Sebastian immediately, leaving him fumbling for words.

“I didn’t want to intrude,” he stammers, holding his hands out. Upsetting either of them is the last thing he’d wanted out of this, and now that he sees how she glares it him, he understands all the ways that his keeping to himself could be seen as inappropriate.

“So instead you hid,” she snarls. “Did you think your absence would be conspicuous?”

She throws his words from the ball back in his face, a clear reminder that she is still hurting from his actions. He has no defense for his behavior, not then and not now, either. “No, I--” He struggles to come up with an explanation that would be any better, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “No, I wasn’t hiding. It just wasn’t my place.”

“Padi.” Bethany reaches out and sets a hand on Hawke’s arm. “He was Sebastian’s friend, too.”

Hawke sighs, shaking her head slowly and still glaring at him. He understands her anger, and regrets that he’s only made it worse before he’s managed to correct the earlier damage. No doubt she blames him for this; even if he helped get her out of the city in time, the Seekers might not have come if he hadn’t put a spotlight on her at the ball. Now the Seekers are seeking, and Varric must lead them away. 

Hawke turns away from Sebastian long enough to kiss her sister on the cheek. “I’m headed off to bed, Beth.”

Bethany glances from her sister to Sebastian and back, offering him a helpless shrug behind Hawke’s back as Hawke makes her way up the stairs to where he’s standing.

Hawke’s eyes cut to the side as she moves past him. “It appears an Exalted March isn’t all we have to worry about when it comes to the Chantry.” She doesn’t stop to wait for his reply as she makes her way to her room, and Sebastian can only turn to watch her go. He has no words to offer her that seem adequate, but he knows that he must find them if he wants to keep her with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	12. Walk by a Waterfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you miss Hawke? I miss Hawke.
> 
> So does Sebastian. They have a lot to talk about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to the incredibly talented [vjatoch on tumblr](http://vjatoch.tumblr.com) for the beautiful artwork to accompany this chapter!

Hawke is curled up in a corner of the window seat, Canut on the floor nearby. Her sketchbook is in her lap, but from here Sebastian can’t see what she’s working on, or what she’s looking at as she gazes out the window. Her hair is gathered into a loose bun at the base of her neck, and her legs are covered by a thick, soft blanket. A mug of tea rests on a tray nearby, but her attention is on something he can’t see, her face unlined and peaceful.

The scene is almost enough to make him turn around in the doorway and leave. He’s barely seen her, and they haven’t spoken more than a few words since the ball, and he misses her, despising these things that interfere to keep them from each other. His meeting with the Chantry left him troubled, lost, and he’d wanted nothing so much as to seek her out to talk with her, to listen to her and simply be in her presence. Varric's departure gave them only a brief, unhappy meeting, leaving him to miss her that much more. Before he can have the privilege of her attention again, he needs to heal what he knows he hurt with his harsh rebuttal.

She told him to take his own advice, to take time to think about what he wanted. For his part, he would have told her that he already knew. What he wanted that night is what he wants now, what he’s wanted since before they left Kirkwall - to be with her, to share her life as a partner, and have her at his side. A kiss in front of Chantry and nobility, however, would have been too official, a gesture that could not be taken back lightly, and a commitment that he was not prepared to make yet. He’s not sure if he’s more prepared now, but he wants to try. If she’ll allow it, and if he can find the words, then perhaps there can be a start. 

“Hello, Hawke.” He balls one hand into a loose fist at his side, fighting the instinct to fold them behind his back. It feels too stiff a pose, but so does just continuing to stand here, on his side of the threshold. 

She blinks, a flicker of surprise in her eyes when he speaks, but when she turns to look at him her expression is cool and composed. “Hello, Your Highness.” The evenness in her tone stings. “Should I stand?”

That stings even more, and Sebastian sighs, his head falling slightly to one side. “Hawke.” He pauses. Perhaps this treatment is no more than he deserves. “Of course not. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

He waits a moment, not expecting her to speak but wanting to leave room. Hawke is kind, and diplomatic, so often he’d watched her quiet conflicts just by speaking to those involved, negotiating the return of a purse from a pickpocket in Lowtown, or getting two nobles to set aside a feud. And often these things go as if by a set script at the start, but he is offered no such diplomacy now, no automatic reassurance that he is not disturbing her. 

“I’ve planned a day out of the city today, in the hills north of here.” He nods towards the window; she should be able to see them. “The waterfall is spectacular up close, and it gives an amazing view of the Marches to the south.” Another pause, and again Hawke only blinks, infinite patience applied with increasing pressure. Only days ago, the invitation would’ve been understood, but this is the damage he’s caused. He doesn’t doubt that she knows what he wants with this, but she will sit and wait for him to say it outright. His heart aches to know he’s hurt her, yet at the same time he is so proud of her, of her pride in herself, her stubborn refusal to let him walk back in without consequence. It’s not a side of her that he enjoys having directed at himself, but it is a side that he finds he is relieved to see. 

“It would be my pleasure if you would accompany me today.” He punctuates the request with a shallow bow, keeping his eyes on her. “We’ve not talked for some days now, and I’d like to. Talk with you.”

There it is, and so he settles his weight and tries to prepare for her response. He hopes without reservation, but knows that the choice is hers, and if she is not interested in reconciliation, then he will have to accept that. She cares for him, but he has not been as nurturing of that as he ought to, especially given that her affection is returned. 

Hawke closes her sketchbook, pencil tucked between the pages, and sets it on the seat, gathering the blanket into her arms and swinging her legs over to sit up. Canut lifts his head to look up at her, having shown no interest in Sebastian so far.

“I’d like that, too,” she replies, her tone so even as to give away no hint of what she’s thinking. “Let me get ready, I’ll meet you downstairs by the door.”

Sebastian grins without reservation, relief flowing through him like the warmth that comes from the first sip of tea on a cold morning, banishing the fear he’d felt that he’d ruined things beyond repair. He’d wasted chance after chance at the ball; he must do better today to make her happy.

An hour later, he finds her by the door, Canut at her side. She’s wearing a long leather coat that flares out at her waist, leggings and tall boots, her hair plaited straight down her back. The strap of a bag runs across her body, but she has neither bow nor quiver with her.

Sebastian has opted to forego his armor, instead only putting on the coat he usually wears under it. It’s more protection than he thinks he’ll need in the forest, but he doesn’t want to have the appearance of a Prince today if it can be avoided. His own pack is slung over his back, some food and rudimentary supplies in case anything should happen - healing salve, flint for a fire. 

Canut stands when Sebastian steps off the stairs, woofing softly and walking in small circles around them, eager to go out, a mirror to Sebastian’s own anticipation. He’s not had a day for himself since before they left Kirkwall, and the idea of spending it with Hawke makes it that much more enticing.

She gives him a polite nod, stepping back to let him open the door for her, and they’re quiet together as they make their way out of the Keep and into the city, each seeming to feel the other out based on body language alone, and so Sebastian does his best to keep his gait loose and slow, to project how calm he wishes he felt with her at his side, rather than the cold well of nerves in his stomach.

It’s still early in the highest circle - Starkhaven wakes earlier and earlier the lower down one goes, so they are alone on the wide stone walkways for most of their trip to the gate. Canut bounds ahead only to return, some Mabari sense letting him know exactly where they’re headed despite never having been. He comes back to push his nose into Hawke’s hand for scratches behind his ears, no such interest shown for Sebastian’s attention.

The guard at the gate nods to them, letting them through without a word. The northern gate is less monitored, too narrow for wagons and virtually unknown for those coming to the city for the first time. It opens to a thin strip of a bridge over the Minanter, wooden and covered, amplifying their footsteps and Canut’s breathing. Already the rush of the waterfall can be heard, and Sebastian steps to the side of the bridge, looking out at the cloud of spray and the turbulent water that flows under them, calming as it joins to one river again on the other side of the city.

Hawke continues for a few steps, then stops, and he sees her watching him for a moment before returning to his side. She leaves a little distance between them, setting her hands on the railing and watching the waterfall as if trying to see what he sees.

“I used to come here when I was a boy,” he offers. “I liked the sound of it, the feel of power in the water, but I was never afraid. I missed it in Kirkwall. There’s water there, but it’s not the same. The sea has its own power, true, but it doesn’t sound like this at all.”

She nods, more her chin coming up than her head tilting down, and taps her fingers lightly on the aged wood. He’s stalling, unsure if he should say something now, closer to the city, to give her the opportunity to turn back, or if he should wait to see if things thaw between them as they spend the day together. 

“How did your meeting with the Chantry go?” She asks without looking at him, but it doesn’t matter, because she’s asked him something, given him an opportunity. He wishes that she had asked about any of a dozen other things, but he can also understand her curiosity.

“Poorly, to be honest.” He sighs and shakes his head. “I suspect they’re accustomed to Goran letting them handle things however they see fit, including how they use their remarkably deep coffers. The Prince has little official sway over the Chantry, but my family has always been closely tied to it, and, well.” He tilts his head from side to side. “There is an argument to be made that I have the closest tie in many generations. It would be embarrassing for them to be found going against my wishes. They were willing to make concessions, but not in areas that were of interest to me.” His voice darkens at the end, recalling how flippant they were about his vows. The thought leads him closer to what he’d wanted to talk to her about, but he finds that he is still uncertain.

“They also asked about you.” Sebastian watches as she lowers her head, eyes moving from the waterfall to the railing, watching her hands as she scratches at the grain with her nail.

Hawke’s voice is barely audible over the water. “What did they ask? What did you tell them?”

“They asked if it was wise to bring you here, if we -- no, if _ I _ wasn’t inviting ruin by bringing someone here who risked the wrath of the Divine, who had a hand in what happened in Kirkwall.” She gives the smallest of nods, and he continues. “But they don’t know,” he continues. She’s not looking, so she doesn’t see the smile that comes to him as he speaks, but it warms his voice as well. “The stories they’ve heard are the worst sorts of exaggerations. They glorify your violence without talking about your heart, your words. In one breath they damn you for attempting to negotiate with the Arishok, in the next they condemn you for killing them. They judge from the safety of a city far from everything that happened.” He blows out a frustrated breath, unable to tell if he’s reassured her at all. “I told them I’ve never met a better woman, that Starkhaven will be safer and better with you inside her walls, and if they think to drive you from the city, then I will be right behind you.”

He watches as her face shifts, her mouth pulling down and brows furrowing as he starts, only to open up when he continues, eyes widening even as her gaze turns inward. 

“Hawke, I wanted to--”

“How do we get to the top of the waterfall?” Her question comes out of nowhere, leaving him open-mouthed and startled, his mind gone blank at the interruption.

“You said there was a view up there,” she continues. “I’d like to see it.”

Sebastian clears his throat and nods, still unbalanced by the sudden turn, but rushing to recover. He is willing to take her not wanting to go back to the city yet as a good sign, though perhaps she just wants to be as far away from their Chantry as possible for a while. He doesn’t let himself dwell on whether or not she’d seen where he was headed in the conversation, choosing instead to step away from the railing and gesture for her to go ahead of him. 

“Right this way.” He sets his fingers on the small of her back in the lightest of touches. Hawke pauses, her head turned ever so slightly towards him, before she seems to make a decision, and continues walking, half a step ahead of him. Sebastian’s fingers are warm where he’d touched her, and he runs his thumb over his fingertips as they cross the bridge. Canut bounds around them, no doubt energized by the fresh air and promise of grass under his feet. 

At the end of the bridge, a trail splits off in two directions, one along the river to the west that will eventually turn south, the other - clearly more well-used - leading up and away, steps carved into brown stone by years of people making this same trek to the waterfall. 

Hawke stops long enough to let him move past her, leading her and the Mabari up the improvised path. Some spots are overgrown, long branches stretching towards the spray and threatening to block their progress, but he holds them so that she can pass, or takes her hand to guide her over rocks made slick by water. He wants to believe that she lingers in these touches, but there is no way to be sure.

The roar of the waterfall softens and fades as they climb, Canut’s snuffling and occasional barking mixed with other forest sounds that come to them, no longer hidden by the din of falling water. The path evens out, framed on one side by tall pines, on the other by a narrow strip of land between them and the river itself, deceptively smooth so close to the edge of the falls. The Mabari trots to the water’s edge and sets his front paws in, leaning down to drink.

“Don’t you think to go for a swim now, or we’ll have to collect what’s left of you from the bottom,” Sebastian warns, pointing back the way they came. Canut looks where he’s pointing, ears flat against his head, and whines before moving away from the river. 

“It’s beautiful.” Hawke is turned from both of them, looking out past the edge where the water and the path fall away. Starkhaven is in the middle ground, and beyond the city is a field of green, a sea of a different sort, far enough away that they can see the full shadows of clouds as they move over the plains, the Vimmark Mountains purple-grey on the horizon.

He sets his hands on her shoulders and turns her two steps to the right. Most of the view in that direction is obscured by trees, but he knows what she’s looking for, even if it is impossible to see it from here. 

“Kirkwall is this way, more or less, straight ahead now.” He can’t see her face, but she tilts her head, and he thinks that she is smiling. It’s a comforting thought, even if he’s showing her a home that she can likely never return to. There are good memories there.

Hawke takes a deliberate breath. “Sebastian.”

“Hawke. Apadiel.” He doesn’t know what she plans to say, but he knows that he needs to apologize before she speaks, just in case he needs to try to change her mind. He squeezes her shoulders before letting go, arms falling to his sides. “I want to apologize. I behaved terribly towards you at the ball. I’ve thought of little else since then, and while I have explanations, you’re under no obligation to listen to them, but I want you to know that I am sorry. I never, ever want to hurt you, and I know I did, and I hope that you can forgive me.”

She turns her head, but not far enough to look at him, then takes a step away. There’s a large rock with a sapling beside it near the water’s edge. She walks to it and sits, elbows resting on her knees, and looks up at him. “You said you had explanations.”

“Yes, but--”

“I want to hear them.” 

His face burns with shame, and he sets his hands on his hips, lowering his head. Somehow he hoped that she might not care, that even if it wasn’t too late, he would be able to avoid this step, necessary though it may be. This is the pull to set a broken bone, that last, worst moment of pain, but with a promise of relief afterwards.

“I can’t say they’ll be good explanations,” he offers.

“Let me decide that, please.” She watches him with an even gaze, no anger there, none of the pain that he hears in her voice. “It was embarrassing, the way you pulled away from me after we danced. It hurt, Sebastian, to say nothing of the way the night ended. I don’t understand. I heard what you said that first night. I see the way you look at me, but then you retreat. I don’t know if there’s something here or not. I know I want there to be, but--”

“There is.” Sebastian doesn’t want to know what comes after the sentence she started. He doesn’t want her to think that they aren’t in agreement about what they want, at the very least. Whether or not it can become a reality for them is something else entirely, something he hopes to make clear today.

He moves to her and pulls her to her feet. She watches him with a guarded expression that he can barely stand to see, and so he looks down at her hand as he talks, running his thumb over her knuckles. “I want to say that I was tired, that I was under pressure, that I bowed to the expectations of the nobility and the Chantry and didn’t want to put you in a situation where your honor could come into question. Those things are all true, but there's more to it. There  _ is _ something here, and it frightens me, and I don’t know what to do, and so I do nothing, or I try to move away, and it goes wrong, every time. I'm afraid, I have been for months, since before we left Kirkwall, since I almost kissed you.” He pauses a beat. “I’m sorry about that as well.”

“You apologize a lot.” There’s a curl of warmth in her voice when she points it out that softens the blow, but she’s not wrong.

“I know,” he sighs. “I don’t want to. I mean, I will, when I’m wrong, when I’ve hurt you, of course. I just want less reason to have to. I’m not very good at this.”

Hawke chuckles, and for the first time since they danced together, he thinks that things might be all right after all.

“You’ll get better,” she replies. “I look forward to being there when it happens.”

Again, he finds himself tossed from calm to flustered in a moment, unprepared for her willingness to stay by his side. He meets her gaze, and her smile is pale, cautious, but unmistakable.

“As do I.” Sebastian looks away, watches the water for a moment. “But I can’t help but worry that someday you’ll realize that I can’t give you what you want, and I'll lose you.”

There’s no reply from Hawke, and her hand goes still where he holds it. 

“I’ve already told you once that I intend to keep my vows.” He says it as gently as he can. “I made as much clear to the Chantry yesterday as well. I’ll be taking my vows again, but they offered to let me set aside my vow of chastity in order to have an heir.”

Sebastian turns to look at her again, and her brow furrows when she looks up at him from where she’s studying their hands, confusion clear on her face. “They gave you permission, and you didn’t take it? Why?”

“Do you remember what I told you, in the Chantry in Kirkwall?”

“You’ve told me a lot of things,” she mutters, looking away towards the water.

He catches her chin with his thumb and forefinger, turning her face back to look into her pale green eyes. “I told you that if I broke my vows to be with you, I would not be worthy of you. That is as true today as it was then, regardless of the Chantry giving me permission.” The words feel strange to think, foreign in his mind and his mouth. “It’s not up to them to give me that permission. This promise is between me and Andraste.”

He sees it, a moment when something resolves in her gaze and the set of her jaw. He knows that she is disappointed. It will take time for both of them to learn how to be with the other, and he wants her to be happy with him. It is a goal he will work towards every day, but there are some lines that can not be crossed, and now, he thinks that she is beginning to understand. It has nothing to do with her; his answer would be the same no matter who stood before him. That it is her makes it that much more of a test of his faith, and there is no victory in his passing.

Sebastian steps away from her, sinking down to sit by the edge of the river, stretching his legs out in front of him. He feels weak, powerless in more ways than one. 

Hawke’s voice comes to him from back over his shoulder. “All this happened after. This isn’t part of the explanation.”

“No, but it is part of it, it’s all…” He makes a gesture like a ball with his hands, still unsure how best to explain the way it fits together in his mind, connected but tangled, one thread impossible to separate from the others. “I’ve never felt this way about someone before, and I don’t know what to do. Or, I know what to do with my body but not with my heart, or my mind. I don’t know how to start, or to behave.” He picks up a stone and tosses it into the water. “The only way I ever learned was bad, not worthy of my feelings for you now, not worthy of  _ you _ . I was a selfish boy, interested only in my own pleasure. I am not that man anymore; now, my pleasure is seeing you happy and being with you, but I know what you want from a man, and I am afraid that I will never be enough. I feel myself being forced to choose between you and my vows, and I don’t want to, because to choose means losing you.”

He pulls his knees up and rests his arms on them. His head is buzzing, as if he forgot to breathe during the entire speech. He probably did, the way that his chest hurts as well. She’s moved in to the edge of his vision while he talked, not quite watching him, but he knows that she’s listening.

“I don’t know how to be with you and still be myself,” he sighs. 

Hawke is quiet, taking deep, even breaths while she studies the toe of her boot. “What about my choice?” She steps towards him, kneeling down next to him, leaning to rest her weight on one hand. “You don’t have to choose, but you seem to have your mind made up about what I want from you, which is strange given that you haven’t asked.”

His brow furrows, and he blinks slowly as he turns to look at her. It’s rare that he recognizes these moments before they’ve passed him by, but he sees this for what it is, the opening that she’s given him.

“Hawke, would you want to be with me, knowing that I won’t break my vows for you? After everything, could you--”

“Stop.” She holds a hand up in front of his mouth, not touching, but just enough to interrupt him. “Sebastian, I care for you. You don’t need to justify your question with a list of all the things you think you’ve done or are doing that mean that I shouldn’t. I know, I was there. And I care for you.”

“But--”

“Sebastian.” His name falls from her lips as a sigh, and she moves her hand away from his mouth to cup his jaw. “Do you care for me?”

He nods, his head too heavy to do it properly. All of him is slow and sad, filled with wet sand so that his joints crunch and there’s grit behind his eyes. He feels no better for having had this conversation. “More than I ever thought I could care for someone. I felt awful after the ball. I was afraid it might be the last straw, that I’d finally done it and lost you.”

Her hand settles at the back of his neck, and even though he shouldn’t allow himself, he leans in when she presses a kiss to his temple.

“You’re very sweet. You’ve been really worried about this, haven’t you?” Her nose is at his hairline and her breath on the side of his face, thumb stroking the skin behind his ear. His hair brushes against her face when he nods. “I’m glad we had this talk. It did hurt, what you said, and I won’t pretend that I wasn’t embarrassed by the way you acted. It felt like you were embarrassed by the thought of being with me.” 

She pulls back enough to look into his eyes, and Sebastian shakes his head emphatically. There are rules, and he knows that she’s spent enough time among stuffy nobles to be aware of them, and how they talk when those rules are broken. 

“I didn’t want you to find that you’d committed to something you never wanted,” he explains, feeling the nervousness return even as he thinks back on it. “To kiss you in front of all those people would, in terms of gossiping nobles, be only slightly less of a gesture than asking for your hand in the middle of the ball. I know you know that,” Sebastian rushes to add when she opens her mouth to protest. He is saying it by way of explanation for his thoughts in the moment, not because she needs a lesson in court intrigue. “When it was happening, I couldn’t conceive of that being what you wanted. I didn’t want you to find later that you’d a mistake.”

Hawke’s smiles grow warmer and kinder for each one that she shares with him. “I knew what I was doing because I know what I want,” she says. “If you ever decide to set aside your vows, I’ll be first in line.” She grins, but Sebastian can’t quite muster a smile in response. When she sees it, she shakes her head a little as she continues. “But if you want to be with me, then I don’t want to make you choose between the two.” 

She slides her hand down from the side of his neck along his arm to rest on top of his hand in the grass. “I want to be clear: I admire what you’ve set out to do in Starkhaven, and I believe that you can do it. And I want to be at your side while you do, but if you can be a Chantry Brother and a Prince at the same time, why can’t you be a Chantry Brother and be with me at the same time? Whatever that looks like.”

He can’t have heard that right. He lifts his head and turns to look at her, but now she’s the one looking away, eyes following the flow of water as she gives him space and waits for his reply. 

Sebastian watches her as he speaks, his hand curling into a loose fist under hers. “You understand there are  _ things  _ I’ll never be able to give you? We can’t share a bed, even.”

Hawke meets his eyes and nods. “That’s all right. You understand I’m not about to take any vows of my own? I don’t think the Chantry would have me, after everything I’ve been a part of.” She chuckles when she says it, and Sebastian can’t help but smile as well. With this, the stone has fallen from his heart where it sat lodged since the night of the ball.

“That’s fine, it’s-- You’re really okay with this? I was an arse, can you forgive me?” He hasn’t asked outright, he realizes, the most important part of it somehow lost in all the other words rushing to get out. 

“Yes, Sebastian. You are forgiven.” This time she kisses his forehead, and he’s overcome with a sense of reverence that’s rare for him outside Chantry walls. 

Hawke stands, brushing grass from her knees, then extends her hand to help him to his feet. She doesn’t let go once they’re both up, and he watches her where she looks down at their joined hands, drinking in the simple joy in the brightness of her smile and her eyes.

He doesn’t want to go back yet. Something’s shifted here, a change in the foundation of what they are, and he wants to stay in this place where it’s happened, as if a return to the Keep will mean a return to the fear and anxiety that he carried up here with him. As if they can only be happy here, at this spot beside the river. 

A hollow scraping sound draws both their attention. From upriver, Canut is returning to them after a jaunt through the woods on his own, dragging and chewing on a piece of log at least three times as long as the Mabari himself. He looks up at them and smiles around the branch, looking immensely pleased and also filthy. 

Hawke laughs as he approaches, turning to watch him struggle to bring the branch to them. Sebastian expects her to let go of his hand, but she doesn’t, even when she takes a step towards Canut.

“Oh, no.” She covers her face with her other arm. “What have you rolled in? Maker’s breath, boy.”

Sebastian coughs, pulling a cloth out of his pocket to hold over his nose. Something, somewhere in the pines, died a while ago, and Canut has found it and covered himself in it.

“If we keep walking,” he suggests, “we’ll come to a bend in the river where the water’s shallower. He can jump in there and wash himself off,” Sebastian adds, pointedly, looking directly at Canut. The Mabari, for his part, woofs happily around the branch and sets off back the way he came, still trying to get a good grip on his prize.

They give him a good head start, then follow after, Hawke still holding Sebastian’s hand, and the peace that he was so reluctant to leave behind moves with them, continues to surround them, a veil that still lets light in, and the sound of birds taking wing above them, spooked by the splash of Canut leaping into the water.

“This wasn’t exactly how I thought of it, but I was rather hoping we wouldn’t have to go back yet,” Hawke says, just enough above a whisper that he can hear her over the Mabari’s frolicking. “I like it here, with you, this is-- He won’t drown, will he?”

Sebastian looks from her to the water and back. Only Canut’s rump is above the water, but there is a steady stream of bubbles from where his head should be.

“No, it’s shallower here, and there’s rocks to keep--”

Hawke cuts him off with a kiss to his lips that comes from nowhere, leaving him still for a moment, hands hovering on either side of her while she holds his face gently. He’s done this a thousand times before but now it’s brand-new, with her this time, as he wraps his arms around her and she smiles against his lips.

She pulls back to look at him, a shadow in her eyes. “This is still allowed, right? You weren’t breaking any--”

“Yes,” he breathes. “I mean no, I mean--” He kisses her again, quick, as if that will do anything to stop his racing heart and mind. “This is fine,” he murmurs. “More than fine,” as her mouth opens to him. Her hands are in his hair, and she is in his arms. Every part of him that she touches goes warm as if he’s melting, and yet his skin sparks, lips and nose and fingertips all alight with sensation. She wants to be there and he wants her to be there, even when their noses bump into each other or his fingers catch in her complicated braid. They take their time, already familiar but with a permission they didn’t have before. Sebastian is careful with himself; his hands, as well as where his mind wanders, and the kiss is an experience all new for him, as he takes in the soft sigh of her breath, the smooth skin of her cheek under his fingers and the taste of her. He calms at her touch, hands on his back, and opens his eyes to see her, only to be met by green eyes looking back at him. 

They both laugh, breaking the kiss but not moving away from each other. She sets her forehead on his chest and her hands on his hips, resting.

She doesn’t see it when his eyes go wide, but she does lift her head when he gasps.

“Oh, oh no! No!” Sebastian only has a moment to spin them around, shielding her body with his own as Canut shakes the water off, freezing cold drops that the coat protects most of him from, but not his head, or his neck, where the water slips down inside his collar.

Hawke steps away, covering her mouth with the back of her hand in a noble but fruitless attempt to keep him from seeing her grin. He straightens, then bends more, back arched and arms held at an awkward half-out angle as he tries and fails to keep the water from running down his spine.

“Ya bloody hound, we were havin’ a moment!” He yells, but he’s laughing, and she’s all but doubled over as well, the sounds of them startling birds in the trees above them. “Maker’s mercy but that’s cold!” Sebastian crows as he paces, trying to get the worst of it to pass. “I was gonna give you a royal appointment, have ya work with Fenris! Now you’ll be lucky if I let you dig holes with the gardener.”

Canut bounds between the two of them, barking and snuffling, excited by their excitement, either unaware of the scolding or uncaring about the threatened consequences.

“Oh, sure, laugh it up. I already know she likes you better, you didn’t have to--” He gives up, setting his hands on his knees and shaking out his hair.

There’s a warm hand combing his hair back from his forehead. He tilts his head to look up at her, and she’s glorious, red and giggling, tears on her cheeks. Embarrassment fades when he takes in her joy at his predicament. 

“Your-- your accent gets worse when you’re upset,” she sighs, trying to compose herself. “Well, not worse, I think it’s cute.”

“All right, thank you, yes,” he drawls, standing again. He shakes his hair out, careful not to throw any drops on her. Bits cling to his forehead, even after he tries to do as she did and comb it away from his face. “You think it’s cute?”

She nods emphatically, and he can only blush at that, ducking his head and looking away. “Do you want to head back? You must be cold.” 

Sebastian only shakes his head when Hawke asks. “I’ll be fine. I don’t want to go back yet, even if I am considering tossing this one in the river to collect him on the way home.” 

Canut’s ears press flat against his head, but for all that he looks sorry his hips never still, the stump of his tail going the whole time.

“Come on, then.” Hawke grabs his hand again. “Let’s find somewhere sunny to eat lunch so that you can dry off.”

He trails a step behind her, his free hand coming up to brush at his lower lip. Everywhere they’ve touched tingles, some new sensation waking to life under his skin. Or not new, but returning, a feeling abandoned years ago, something that he thought he would live his life without. 

They spend the day together in the woods and near the bank of the river, and again and again Sebastian is amazed at how careless and generous Hawke is with her touch. She runs a hand through his hair, sets her head on his shoulder, sits with their thighs against each other, stretched out on the grass. At times it threatens to overwhelm him, the edges of the day itself blurred by the knowledge that they are touching. Or that she is touching him, as he finds he struggles to reciprocate, unsure where to begin, what she could want, or even what he wants in a form more specific than  _ more. _

The last of the sun’s light burns on the horizon when they find themselves on their way back into the city. The lamps on the bridge flicker, a shimmer around them from the waterfall’s spray. Canut has worn himself out and walks on one side of Hawke, Sebastian on the other, her hand still in his. This has been a day unlike any other in his life, and he’s spent much of it searching for words to explain that to her, but Hawke is content with his quiet company, never far from his side. Coming back to Starkhaven feels like waking from a dream, and so he lingers on the bridge, a threshold between that place where he and Hawke have started this new and fragile thing, and the mountain of responsibilities that threaten to tear them apart. Through the gate, he sees only adversity for them, and that apart from all that he bears within himself. 

“Hawke-- Apadiel. There are things that I should tell you.” He stops, untangling his fingers from hers as she keeps walking, pausing a step ahead of him. All day he’s sought to piece together the thoughts and feelings that fill him. There is so much she still doesn’t know, things that he wants to explain to her, but can’t figure out how. 

She turns to look at him, her head framed by the halo of light caught in the spray of the waterfall. All of her is glowing, even more so when she lowers her eyes, then looks up at him with a shy, reserved smile.

“I know you want to, but we don’t have to do this all in one day.” Hawke closes the space between them, picking up his hands. “I don’t think we can. There’s just too much. You have to let it take time, Sebastian. It’s okay for it to take time.”

“But--”

“Do you feel better than you did this morning?” She asks.

He laughs a little with relief at her question, at the realization that in fact, he does feel better. “Yes, of course I do.”

“So do I,” she replies, pulling his hands to wrap his arms around her waist, her arms looping around his neck to hold him close. “And you’ll feel even better tomorrow, and the day after. There are things that I should say, too, but we’ll get there when it feels right.”

His heart is louder in his ears than the waterfall, but her voice cuts through all of it, warm and reassuring, more confident in him, and in  _ them _ , than he dared hope for when they were on this same bridge this morning.

Too soon, she settles back on her heels, moving her hands to his chest. When she tilts her head in the direction of the city, he nods, and they head home hand in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	13. A Day in the City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian and his friends spend the day in Starkhaven, giving him the opportunity to meet some of his subjects, and to see how it feels being seen together with Hawke.

The Seneschal paces in front of the desk, and Sebastian’s eyes follow him from corner to corner. Granger is concerned with ceremony and the preservation of Sebastian’s status as soon as there is an audience, and yet somehow he always manages to forget himself when they’re in a room with no one else.

“Are you sure this is wise, sire?”

Sebastian laughs. “No, I’m not, but my brother Bartholomew was, bless him. He’s written it all here, down to the percentages. It’s remarkable.” He spreads his hands out over the book that lays open on his desk, one page filled with text in his brother’s compact, neat handwriting; the other page has a set of tables with perfectly drawn lines illustrating the theory - how much can be taken, how much can be given, and how the excess of a few can be used to the benefit of many.

Granger leans over, trying to read the charts and figures upside down. “Did he consider anything about the social ramifications?”

Sebastian quirks a brow. He is aware of the idea of the social ramifications, but less worried about them than his adviser. It’s one of the things that Seneschal Granger has been desperately attempting to help him understand, though he still finds he doesn’t care for it. The machinations of nobility were interesting in his youth as a plaything, a set of rules to be flaunted or discarded at his leisure, and it seemed he could do no wrong with them as he shifted from golden gentleman one moment to utter scoundrel the next. Now, every step must be measured and consequences considered, or so would be the case if he took the Seneschal’s advice at every turn. “You’re concerned that the nobles won’t like being relieved of some of their gold.”

Granger nods emphatically. “And see it passed into the hands of those who have done nothing to earn it, yes.”

“They are the Maker’s children,” Sebastian reminds him, his tone cool and watchful. “We must take care of each other. What more is there to earn?”

Granger tilts his head to the side and sighs, looking at Sebastian as if he’s missed some important point. The gesture is so much like his father that Sebastian bristles, his patience disappearing as he prepares for a lecture and a scolding. Sure enough, when Granger speaks again, his words are slow, almost to the point of patronizing. “If coin is to be handed out for being the Maker’s children, is it not better that it come from the Chantry?”

Sebastian scoffs. He did something similar with the Chantry to finance the quick construction of the new Circle. Three golden Andraste statues and several large donations later, and the Circle was an edifice both beautiful and liveable. It is also slowly being populated with mages who have turned willingly to a life of safety and security with what Sebastian would call minimal Templar oversight. 

“To get coin from the Chantry, one must  _ go to the Chantry _ ,” Sebastian replies, each word clipped, deliberate and defined, amplifying the condescension of Granger’s tone when thrown back at him. “And while I am still a Brother in the Chantry, I can not think only of those who join me there. There are whole sections of the city filled with people who do not all go to the Chantry. I am still responsible to help them, am I not? They are citizens of Starkhaven no less than the nobility.”

He sees it in Granger’s eyes when understanding comes to him on two fronts - first, that he overstepped his bounds with Sebastian in speaking to him so, and secondly, that Sebastian intends to take money from the nobility and give it to the very elves that serve them. 

“To be Prince of Starkhaven means being Prince of everyone inside these walls, not only Prince of those who would agree with me,” Sebastian reminds him, as gently as he can around his rising temper. This, also, is something he needs to learn: to control his anger, to allow it to leave him without being acted upon. “I am simply using my power as Prince to do as the Maker wills, to see to it that those in need are helped.”

“Yes, there is the matter of that, as well.” Granger points when he pauses in his pacing, and while it might not be what the Seneschal intends, Sebastian can not help but stare at the extended finger until it curls back into Granger’s fist along with the others, as if he himself has come to the conclusion that one ought not to point at Princes. “How are we to judge need?”

On the surface, it would seem a fair question. Sebastian found himself struggling with it when he’d first read through his brother’s plans. He sought guidance not only with the Maker, but also with those who have lived a life of imposed poverty that he could not imagine. While the life of Chantry Brother was a humble one, there was never any fear about where his next meal would come from, or if he would have a home. Hawke and her sister, Merrill, even Fenris and Isabela were all been able to provide insight that he was ashamed to realize he’d never considered. He hears a not-so-distant version of himself in Granger’s words, and can only hope to be as convincing as those who helped him see.

“Those who do not have rarely take more than they absolutely need,” he explains. “I think the trouble will lie in getting them to accept what we are offering them without suspicion, not in people taking more than they require.”   


Granger’s expression sours at the idea. “I just don’t think it’s prudent. If-- may I speak frankly, Your Highness?”

“You mean you haven’t so far?” He leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers to hide his grin. The Seneschal challenges him, even if Sebastian isn’t sure he always means to do so. He finds himself forced to articulate his arguments clearly and concisely. Winning over Granger is often more difficult than winning over the others, or the city at large. He is a good sounding board in that regard, and while he is not the most pleasant man Sebastian has known, he is smart and a useful adviser.

The comment at least gets Granger to sit down and look somewhat abashed. “If you make life in Starkhaven too  _ cheap _ , won’t that attract  _ people _ that are, as well?”

It’s Sebastian’s turn to sour at that, though there is some relief as well, hearing Granger finally come to the point that he’s been circling for some time. “I was a cheap person for years,” Sebastian points out, waving away Granger’s attempt to argue. “Would you have me out of the city, now that I live here? I pay nothing for my home. I earn no wages for my work. I lived in the Chantry in Kirkwall for fifteen years. My room and board, food, clothing, all provided by those who could spare some coin. That arrangement is not so different from what my brother’s designed here.” He taps at the pages as if to remind Granger that this idea is not only his own, but comes from his brothers, who were actually trusted to reign. “We are not taking from those who do not have it to spare, and we are giving it to those who will make better use of it than to leave it sitting in a coffer growing dusty, however. I can only hope to make Starkhaven somewhere that welcomes people, regardless of their need. I watched Kirkwall turn away refugees while estates were home to slavers. I do not want that to be the case here.”

He takes a breath to still his heart in his chest. These are things that he would never have thought of only months ago. Kirkwall is a lifetime away from the days that he leads now, discussing the economy of the city, the politics of pleasing nobles while still getting anything at all done, even the training of the guard - though that has been turned over entirely to Fenris. There was some need for recruitment, some of the men and women feeling that they could not serve under an elf, but there were equally as many elves in the alienage who were grateful for the opportunity. 

All these things are Sebastian’s responsibility, and this is not the first time he is surprised to find that he has some aptitude for it, though he is not without help, not least from his family. His father and brothers left behind volumes of writing, examples and suggestions, minutes of meetings, and he’d pored over them, taking in what he could, using what he thought would help. Today’s meeting is no exception. He’d known that Granger would oppose the idea, but he came prepared, with his brother’s notes as well as his own.

“It will not be easy to convince the nobility that they have reason to pay more,” Granger sighs, but Sebastian can see in his eyes that he is prepared to concede. “We will need a careful touch to persuade them. One or two, you may need to handle personally.”

Sebastian looks away as he nods. “I would expect no less, though I have to protest at the idea that we should have to soothe them like children in order to get them to follow written laws.”

Granger chuckles. “And I would expect no less than your protests, Your Highness. If you truly believe in this idea, however, you will need to campaign for it.”

“I will do what I can, if it helps those in the city who need it most.” He closes the book in front of him, then glances at Granger. “You understand this applies to the alienage as well? I’ll not see them excluded from what we’re offering the city.”

Granger’s eyes widen for a moment before his expression settles, mouth pressed to a thin, pale line. “Of course, Your Highness. If there was nothing else?”

Sebastian shakes his head. “You’re welcome to look through this if you’d like. Bartholomew was not without good ideas. I think there’s more here that can be of use, but it would be good to have someone else’s eyes on it.”

That soothes Granger somewhat, and he smiles as he collects the book under his arm. Isabela and Bethany have already had the opportunity, and Sebastian plans to show it to Hawke as well, but that can wait if it means that he can more readily count on Granger’s support.

They stand and leave the office, walking side by side as they make their way up the hall. Canut’s bark echoes up to meet them.

“Are you still planning a trip out into the city this afternoon, then?” 

Granger makes an effort to hide the displeasure in his voice, but out of the corner of his eye Sebastian sees the frown when he nods. 

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance I can change your mind about bringing guards?” 

Sebastian shakes his head. “I will have Fenris with me, as well as Hawke and Isabela, and Merrill.” His voice trails off as he considers them each in turn, recalling their bravery in Kirkwall. “And should they all desert me, I am also capable of protecting myself. I do appreciate your concern however.”

Granger grumbles something unintentional but doesn’t pursue the matter further. The Seneschal would rather Sebastian’s every move was planned and announced beforehand, a red carpet to be rolled out wherever he goes, and part of Sebastian wonders if the requested guards aren’t more about making an impressive presence rather than actual protection. Sebastian prefers his freedom, being able to walk through the city as a person rather than a title. He hopes that today will be such an opportunity.

“Will you be back for supper, Your Highness?” He shifts the book from one side to the other as they approach the stairs, the others coming into view where they wait for him. Hawke is already lingering near the door, Canut on his back at her feet, tongue lolling while Merrill rubs his stomach.

“I can’t say, Granger. I do know where the kitchen is if we get in late. Don’t worry. And thank you for your time today, it was most helpful.” Sebastian grips just above Granger’s wrist in a firm farewell, and notes the flash of surprise on Granger’s face before he returns the gesture.

“Of course, sire.” They release each others’ forearms and Granger slips away, leaving Sebastian to join the others for their trip out into the city.

He makes his way down the stairs to find them gathered, waiting for him and yet not, absorbed in their own conversations. Sebastian pauses, reluctant to interrupt, and content at the sight of his friends enjoying each others’ company in his home. There is so much that he wants for his reign as Prince, but when they first left Kirkwall this was foremost in his mind - to give those he cares about a haven, somewhere to rebuild after all that they have been through. The Maker set him on this path, but he did not want to walk it alone, not where he know how much he could offer his friends. Seeing them gathered together, perhaps he can tell himself that he’s succeeded.

“There you are! Did your meeting run long?” Bethany is closest, leaning against the railing at the bottom of the stairs.

“It appears it did,” Sebastian replies, looking around at them. “But to good effect. I think the Seneschal is starting to see the merit of my ideas.”

“As well he should.” She smiles as she nods. “They’re good ideas, and you’re going to do a lot of good by making them happen.” She is always ready with encouragement, it seems to him, and yet it is never anything less than fully genuine, and it is precisely what Sebastian needs after his challenging meeting with the Seneschal.

After collecting them, Sebastian leads them to a side exit, not wanting the attention of armored guards and the wide front doors opening. Instead he guides them down a narrow stairway to a simple iron gate. It creaks when it opens, but no one thinks to look.

“This is how you got in and out when you were younger, wasn’t it?” Hawke asks as she slips past him, giving him a conspiratorial smile that he’s quick to return.

“It was,” he chuckles, following her with his eyes, then looking up at the doorway. “I haven’t thought of it in years, but I wanted a quiet escape now.”

He waits until everyone is through - Hawke, Bethany, Merrill, Isabela. Fenris insists on closing the gate behind him, the only one of them who brought a visible weapon along for the day, and Canut trots along beside him as if playing the faithful guard dog of the group. 

The day is cool, but sunny, a good opportunity to show off Starkhaven from her best side. Time seemed to run away from all of them after the coronation, all their plans suddenly becoming reality and sending them in different directions. Despite his offers, Merrill moved into a modest home in the alienage, and while she visits the Keep at least twice a week, it is not the same without her constant presence. Even Isabela has found other lodgings, and he doesn’t doubt that she is more familiar with the current Starkhaven than he is. Bethany’s moving into the Circle earlier this week was expected, but left Hawke quiet and sullen for days afterwards, and he hopes that a day out with them all together will lift her spirits.

The timing of the day is also lucky, as the square outside the Keep is playing host to a monthly gathering of merchants, both from the city itself and beyond. The courtyard is filled with colorful tents and wagons overflowing with goods. At the far end, a stage is set up, currently home to a small band of musicians that entertain the crowds as they wander from stall to stall.

Isabela and Merrill disappear almost immediately, and it’s not entirely clear which one is dragging the other by the hand. 

Fenris sighs and lopes off after them, no doubt concerned that they may need protecting. The idea makes him smile; it’s more likely that Starkhaven needs to be protected from the three of them. Sebastian can do little more than hope that they will at least pay for everything they return with. Hawke was generous with all of them, handing out gold and making sure they knew they could come to her for more if they needed it. He’d fought down a moment’s embarrassment, reassuring himself that he would reimburse her, and better, when they were back at the Keep. These are his dearest friends, and he is Prince of the city, a position he would not hold if it were not for them. It is the least he can do.

“When I was younger, there was a troupe of actors that would come to the market sometimes. Not every month, but once in a while. Or so it seemed to me, at least, but I was only a boy of five or six. I recall they brought the most wonderful creations with them, puppets made of metal with glowing eyes. I was too small to understand magic properly, I wasn’t exposed to it. I just remember being delighted when they walked across the stage.” He laughs and shakes his head. “I begged my parents to get me one. They never did. Perhaps that was the problem all along,” he adds with a quiet laugh.

He talks while they stroll, telling Hawke and her sister about the history of the city, as well as his own past. Here, where Bartholomew and he used to race from the Keep to the end of the square and back. There, where Thomas would follow two steps behind their father, mirroring his gait and bearing, already preparing to step into the role he was destined for. Their names feel strange in his mouth, words from a language he’s not spoken for some time, out of place in his vocabulary. And there is a tug in his chest when he thinks of them - the children they were, and the men they became. He is surprised to find that it helps to speak of them, to share his memories with Hawke and her sister, even answering their questions, and he catches himself smiling as he reminisces. 

“My mother always kept coins in her pocket so that we could make wishes in the fountain there.” He nods towards it as they approach, the ornately carved leaping fish glistening in the sun, children racing each other around it while their parents look on. 

“I have coins!” Bethany sets off before he can protest, with her sister in tow, their arms linked together. 

Sebastian can do little more than follow along after them. He watches as Bethany digs coins out of the pocket of her robe, holding her head high and ignoring the glances from some of the others gathered nearby. She closes her eyes and lowers her head, a moment of quiet thought before the coin hops from her fingers, spinning end over end to drop beneath the surface and settle gently on the bottom on the fountain. Hawke does the same, glancing at her sister as she tosses the coin, and Sebastian goes last, though his is less a wish than a prayer. 

_ Maker, help me to help their wishes come true, whatever they may be. _

“What did you wish for?” A little girl looks up at him with honey-colored eyes and a smile missing a tooth.

“Oh, we can’t tell you that!” Bethany crouches down to her level, elbow resting on her knee. “You have to keep it a secret, or it won’t come true.”

The girl’s eyes go wide, and her smile falls as she looks over her shoulder at her mother, then back to them. “I told mama. Does that mean it won’t come true?”

Sebastian hums thoughtfully, giving her his best serious look when he answers. “I’ve always heard that mothers are the exception. Mothers, you can tell them anything, and it’s safe with them. Just in case, though, take this and make one more wish. To be sure.”

The girl shouts a thank you over her shoulder as she runs back to her mother, holding up the coin. Sebastian meets her mother’s eyes and accepts her offered bow with a nod. He is not here to act as Prince today, but neither is it a duty he can neglect or set aside. He runs the pad of his thumb along the smooth gold of his father’s ring at the thought. 

Their tour of the market continues, with Sebastian offering more historical anecdotes while the Hawke sisters walk arm-in-arm beside him. He surprises himself with his own knowledge, telling them about the city’s earliest history as a fishing spot that became a settlement, growing both up and down the hillside until it became the city they see today. He knows smaller details as well, about the Dwarven architect who originally designed the Keep, and about the family who owned the quarry from which the granite was mined, all from the same place, to give the square its uniform look despite the different colors.

There are people from every walk of life in the market around them, and it makes him smile to see it. There are separations in Starkhaven, though the strata are not so defined as in Kirkwall; there is no Hightown, no Lowtown. Here, nobles and merchants pass between the families of tradesmen, or servants, out both in service but also for their own pleasure. Men, elves, and dwarves cross paths here every day. It is a city, like so many others and yet unlike any other he has ever known. This is the Starkhaven he remembers, and he is here with friends for perhaps the first time.

He watches Hawke while they walk, glad to see the way she’s lit up to be beside her sister again. He hadn’t known that the separation would be so difficult for her, but as he looks on, it makes sense. This is not the first time Bethany has gone to a Circle, and in Kirkwall it was one in a string of losses for her. Bethany is all the family that Hawke has left, and Sebastian hopes that her position as First Enchanter - now approved by the Chantry and Templars - will allow her the freedom to see her sister often.

Hawke has stopped by a tent, she and her sister lean against each other in whispered conversation as they look at colorful shawls. Bethany plucks at the edge of one in a brilliant blue, and he thinks he sees her glance at him over Hawke’s shoulder. He smiles, ducking his head and walking towards them.

“Find something you like, Ladies Hawke?” Both of them glance at him, but Bethany is the first to look away, her cheeks going pink as she shakes her head. 

Hawke holds his gaze for longer, locking their eyes together as she turns away from the table, leaving the scarves behind. 

“No,” she replies, her smile soft and warm, with something else behind it that he can’t place. “Just wondering how long it would take for you to notice we’d stopped.”

Bethany thanks the merchant, and they move away without buying anything, Hawke coming to Sebastian’s side and her sister walking a step behind them. He sees Hawke stealing glances out of the corner of his eye, and he does his best to catch them. She drifts closer to him, and when her knuckles brush over the back of his hand, they leave sparks in their wake, just as he’d felt when she’d kissed him that first time. 

It’s been a long time - twenty years or more - since he was this nervous with a girl. Woman.  _ Girl  _ is wrong for her, all that she’s been through, the time he’s known her. He is no less nervous for it; even with all his years of being alone, he is not so hopeless as to fail to understand what she wants from him. His fear disappoints him, to think that he should still carry this lingering uncertainty. They walked hand in hand in the forest on that first day, and there are still nights when he chastises himself for his failure to show his affection at the ball. 

Voices and thoughts clamor in his mind, his pulse thudding in his ears. This is  _ Hawke _ , his dearest friend, somehow become the woman by his side, a beauty filled with fire and spirit and heart. They know each other’s darkness, the loss of their families. The affection that blooms in his chest all but shouts down the dissent and questions. Perhaps he does deserve this. Perhaps he can have this and his crown, and his place within the Chantry. And if the Prince of Starkhaven is seen walking hand in hand with the Champion of Kirkwall, then that is their choice, and those that would react to it are free to do so at their leisure.

It is with the sort of weightless, giddy fear of a schoolboy that he reaches down and takes her hand, and everything within goes still and silent, a missing piece set in place.

“Don’t want to lose you again,” he manages, looking at her from the side. The heat of his skin is made worse by the crisp air, his blush creeping down under his collar and into his hairline.

She shifts her hand to stitch their fingers together, smiling but saying nothing by way of reply. The stillness in him explodes into elation, and in another time he would have pulled her close and kissed her breathless there in the middle of the square. He is not as careless as he once was, however, and he finds that he is content with this simple but unmistakable gesture, with the anchor it provides, the link between the two of them. If it is enough for her, then it is enough for him as well. 

He is not oblivious to the quiet cooing behind them. Bethany has noticed, and Hawke has noticed that Bethany has noticed. She squeezes his hand, pulling him a little closer to her, and he almost stumbles, reeling with the lightness of it, to be with someone like this again, in the city, under the eyes of anyone who happens to see them. It’s more than he ever thought to look for in his life; she is far more than he ever anticipated, in every imaginable way. And she is holding his hand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	14. Dark Past, Bright Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a day in the city, the crew find themselves in a tavern for the evening. It seems that the clergy are not the only one with thoughts about Sebastian's succession, and about his future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's incredible art is by [sunshinemage on tumblr!](https://sunshinemage.tumblr.com) <3
> 
> There is discussion of infertility in this chapter. It is brief and vague, and the affected character has accepted it as a part of her life.

The day out in Starkhaven stretched into the evening as well, all of them finding each other as the sun dipped below the horizon, and Isabela leading them to an inn nestled among the expansive mansions of the nobles. While Sebastian himself was reluctant to use his title, Isabela had no such qualms in her efforts to secure a private parlor for the Prince of Starkhaven, the First Enchanter, the Champion of Kirkwall, the Captain of the City Guard as well as the Elven Ambassador and the Official Court Mabari. It was rare to see her place herself on the bottom rung, but it worked remarkably well, and the group found themselves led to a richly appointed room with couches and chairs, a warm fireplace and freely flowing drinks, as well as trays piled with bread, meats, cheeses and fruits. 

“Everyone was so nice today. Sebastian, everyone in your city is so nice!” Merrill carefully picks through a bowl of deep red berries as she talks, looking at each one individually before deciding whether or not to set it on her plate. “We stopped to talk with so many of the merchants, and they let us try their food, and some of them gave us gifts.”

Isabela picks up the bowl of berries and brings the whole thing with her to the small, round table they’ve gathered around in front of the fireplace. Sebastian and Hawke are sitting on the couch, with Bethany on the floor by Hawke’s feet, Canut’s head resting in her lap. Merrill curls up into a chair on one side of the couch, and Isabela goes to the other side, to an empty chair between Sebastian and Fenris.

“Elven ambassador getting gifts from the other city elves,” Isabela mutters under her breath, meeting Sebastian’s eyes to make sure he’s listening. “No surprise they were so glad to share, with Fenris walking around behind us with a sword bigger than she is.”

Sebastian grins at the comment, turning to look at Merrill as Isabela raises her voice so that others can hear. “Yes, Kitten, it really was a nice day. Even I managed a trinket or two - nothing from the merchant’s tables!” She rushes to add as she holds her hands up in innocence, dark eyes wide until she grins, turning one hand to show off a ring set with an enormous red stone. “What, you think because you’re the Prince, you’re the only one who can take things from nobles that they don’t need?”

She slouches down into the chair, putting on a pout for a moment before leaning forward to collect her glass from the table. A half-empty bottle of wine rests between her chair and Fenris’, and he picks it up to fill her glass without a word from either of them, only a smile exchanged.

The conversation turns to what each of them saw and did during the day, and their opinions of the city and the people. Sebastian does his best to steer them away from discussion of politics, of what will be improved by the redistribution of coin and balancing of the scales. Their optimism buoys him, but he spends his days mired in such conversations, and finds that he really would much rather hear about how Merrill is getting on in the alienage, and what Bethany’s days are like in the Circle.

Through it all, Hawke is settled in against his side, sitting with one leg crossed over the other and her arm hooked around his. Every point of contact is warm, and Sebastian has to concentrate to keep up with the banter around them, losing words and phrases to distraction every time she shifts. Glass of wine in hand, she tucks her feet up under her and leans more fully against him, and his throat goes dry in the middle of his describing his eventful first meeting with the Chantry.

He’s just come to Margot’s offering to allow him to set aside his vows, and he has no doubt that Hawke means her touches as a show of support, but they are instead serving as a stark reminder of all the things that he set aside in the service of Andraste. It’s an uncomfortable juxtaposition, to discuss his commitment to his vows while Hawke’s touch lights fire beneath his skin.

“It makes your rules seem rather arbitrary,” Merrill muses. The bowl of berries has migrated to her lap, and she continues grazing while talking. “If the Chantry means that you can just ignore them when they’re inconvenient.”

“That was my problem with it as well.” Sebastian leans forward, setting his elbows on his knees. It’s a shift in posture that leaves Hawke no choice but to move away from him, and she settles into the couch cushions, her arm draped along the back. Sebastian stiffens, his heart in his throat as he waits to see if she will be bothered by the change. At first she’s still, but after a moment she sits up beside him, almost mirroring him. She reaches out and combs her fingers lightly through the hair at the base of his neck, then rests her hand between his shoulder blades. Her touches are as welcome and reassuring as they are overwhelming; he is not used to such constant subtle reassurance, and he softens again, but doesn’t lean in to the touch.

Isabela’s head falls to the side so dramatically that her necklace rattles. “If they’re so worried about your heir, what about bastards?”

The silence that fills the room is heavy and immediate, leaving Sebastian with the urge to try to pop his ears. Even Canut has lifted his head to look at Isabela where she’s sitting sideways in the chair, legs draped over one arm, pointing at Sebastian around her wine glass.

“I’m-- No,  _ what _ ?” A creeping sort of numbness spreads through him as he tries to digest her words, as if his legs would give out if was standing. “I’m sorry, did you say ‘bastards’?”

“Yes, bastards.” Isabela gesticulates with her glass, which Merrill follows with a concerned gaze before turning back to Sebastian. They have all turned to look from Isabela to Sebastian now, and he feels their watching as a weight on his skin.

“You really think that-- that I could possibly have children, somewhere in the city?” The very notion makes heat creep up on the sides of his neck and face, and he finds that he can’t look at Hawke for more than a moment without flinching, instead keeping his eyes on Isabela and pretending that he doesn’t know all of them are watching him.

“The idea has an unfortunate amount of merit, Your Highness.” Isabela slides from the chair to stroll around the room, refilling everyone’s glass but Sebastian’s, though Hawke waves her off, hands clasped tightly in her lap. Merrill is nodding along, and the light from the fireplace makes Fenris’ eyes glow and his expression impossible to read where he sits a little apart from the group.

“You were young, they were young, responsibility and planning for the future are not high on the list at that age, if they ever are,” Isabela adds with a shrug. Her tone is soft, a genuine attempt on her part to lessen the blow she appears to realize she’s dealt him. “You think you’re invincible and immune to consequences.”

Sebastian pushes out a breath and shakes his head. It’s too surreal, something from beyond a nightmare. “I should think if I had children, I’d be the first to know.”

“Well, second,” Bethany mumbles, and Sebastian rolls his eyes. He’s in no mood for such technicalities, for all that he can comprehend that the discussion continues to go forward.

“She’s right. They’d have to tell you.” Hawke’s head swivels with strained control as she looks from Isabela to him, and there’s something in her eyes that he can’t place, not disappointment, or at least not only that. “The women, they would have to find you, and tell you, and be  _ sure _ , because you were a Prince, and you don’t just accuse a Prince of… well.” She spreads her hands.

“And, I don’t want to be indelicate, but.” Isabela looks down at her hands, staring into her wine. As if the entire discussion wasn’t already vulgar and unthinkable. “You had your share of women. Perhaps the women also had their share of men? Perhaps they weren’t sure who to tell.”

The idea that he could have had any part of something like that makes him nauseous. He wants to leave the table, this impromptu council he’s surrounded himself with, and go find fresh air and quiet, but he knows that this will follow him. The seed is planted in his mind, a little thing, but foreign, and enough to irritate his thoughts so that he will return to it. 

If he ever knew how many women he’d lain with, he has long since forgotten the number. In the beginning, he tried to be fastidious, asking if they were drinking their tea, but he also never turned a partner down, and as time passed, he can’t be certain that he continued to ask. 

“Then how do we find them?” Merrill’s voice cuts through the stretched silence and comes to Sebastian as if through water. “If they didn’t tell anyone, or they didn’t know, then how do we know they’re out there?”

It’s a question Sebastian is none too keen on starting to answer, because he knows that he will have to be included in the discussion, including parts of his life that he doesn’t want to examine anymore. He’s put all that behind him, and the idea of what this could entail is horrifying. He doesn’t care at all for the thought of them digging through his past, even under the guise of what they would likely see as help. It is already too much for one evening, threatening to overwhelm him where he sits. Already there are tendrils of it in his throat and his chest, pulling and tightening as the fear tries to claw its way out.

“These women should be left alone,” he protests. “We can’t-- they might have families now, other children, other lives. I have no desire to revisit my past, and I doubt they will, either. I understand the thought, I really do, but we can’t do this.”

“What are the alternatives?” Hawke is watching him again, her gaze cool and steady, not one he’s used to sweating under. “You told the Chantry you won’t break your vows again, and sooner or later you will need a successor, or else we might as well have kept Goran here to take over afterwards.”

She’s hurt. That’s what he’d seen on her face before, that he couldn’t put words to, but he hears it now in her voice, the shake that she tries so hard to hide as she looks away from him, seeking her sister’s eyes for support. Somehow, this discussion is hurting her, and between that and his own discomfort, it’s enough for him to want to table it. The day felt like a breakthrough, and already he is worried that their fragile reconciliation will not bear the weight of this subject.

“Your family knew what you were up to, right?”

He’s not sure where Isabela is going with this line of questioning, but gives a curt nod. “Yes, they knew. When I was scolded, it was sometimes in frankly surprising detail, I suppose.”

Bethany and Merrill draw a breath at the same time, and he hears Fenris hum as well. All of them come to some revelation that he is still somehow missing.

“You were followed, Sebastian.” Isabela says it like an apology, and he takes it as one. None of this is her fault; she is simply putting words to what is rapidly becoming a plausible theory that it would be irresponsible for him to ignore. “Your family, if they knew what to scold you for, then they knew what you were doing. Someone was telling them. And if they knew what you were doing, then they also knew who you were doing it with.” 

Isabela can’t not snicker at the end of her own statement, and Merrill giggles along with her. Sebastian doesn’t look, but he does hear it when the laugh is cut short, and he knows that it’s Hawke that’s done it, and he hates it. 

“You think there are records?” Bethany is breathless where she sits, looking up at Isabela from her spot on the floor. 

“If I had a ship to wager, I’d wager my ship that somewhere - within the Chantry, in a locked cabinet, in a room no one’s been in for years - there’s a book, a stack of letters. Something that could tell you whether or not I’m right.” Seemingly satisfied that she’s made her case, Isabela sinks back down into her chair, looking far too content with herself for Sebastian’s taste, considering the chaos her suggestion has caused around him, and inside him.

“That Chantry Mother. It does seem odd that she would weigh in on something so private.” It’s the first time Fenris has spoken since the conversation turned to the topic, and there is trepidation in his voice. “If she knows that there are people in the city who can claim a right to the throne now that you’re on it, a legitimate heir would stop them. It could explain her meddling, Sebastian.”

He stares back at Fenris with his mouth slightly open, his mind refusing to supply any sort of suitable reply to this newest suggestion. Fenris, for his part, furrows his brows and looks down at the wine glass in his hands without another word.

Conversation continues around him as he attempts to tie together all the threads that Isabela and the others have woven. His parents warned him of the dangers a bastard could pose to their family and their rule, but the thought that they could have used his friends as spies, found out more than he himself knew, and never told him is too much to ask him to accept without evidence. The very idea that the Chantry may have known, and may still know, threatens to break him.

_ Maker, give me strength. _

“That’s enough.” His head is buried in his hands, but he speaks with an unmistakable authority that stops the voices of everyone around him. “This subject is closed. Perhaps we can discuss this more in the coming days, but I need a break to think about it. Thank you, all, Isabela, for the  _ suggestion _ .” 

His tone softens as he speaks, but he keeps his head bowed, unable to bring himself to meet their eyes. Hawke is the first up out of her chair, however, not waiting for him to finish speaking, and Sebastian does look up at that. He can only watch helplessly for a moment, frozen momentarily until he recalls that he’s among friends, and that he need not hold to protocol here. There is no need to dismiss them all before he can be himself again. That’s all it takes to send him up from the couch to follow her.

The hallway out of their room is short, but opposite the door is a small balcony that looks out over the city, and she is there, silhouetted against the evening sky, arms folded across her chest and her chin held high. She is staring out over the city, he thinks at first, but as he gets closer, he sees that her gaze is fixed on a point on the horizon.

Kirkwall.

“You left quickly,” he offers, tilting his head a little as he looks at her.

“We were done.” She shrugs with one shoulder, not sparing him more than a glance. “Nothing left to talk about, was there?”

He’s not sure where to start. He would disagree; there is still plenty to talk about, not least between the two of them. He started to try to tell her, on the bridge that first day, but she said that it could wait. At the time, he was relieved to oblige; Sebastian would gladly leave his past unspoken of for the rest of his life, but it affects him even now, and so it will affect her, affect  _ them,  _ and that means that she needs to understand. 

He watches her for a moment, weighing his words. Telling her that he could see that she was hurt will garner the wrong reaction; he doesn’t want her running away again, not until he’s sure that there’s nothing he can do to help.

“We’ve never really talked about my past,” he starts. There will be no great explanation tonight, but perhaps a softening of the ground. “It’s not something I’m proud of. I never thought that I’d have to look at it in such specific detail again, ever. I put it behind me.”

She tips her head back, taking in the clouds that roll swiftly past above them, stars winking in and out of sight. He looks up as well, breathing in the cool, damp air and letting it find its way down into the collar of his shirt. The burn on his skin is lessened, but the embarrassment remains hot and uncomfortable.

“You think I’m upset because this theoretical hunt for your bastards would mean digging into your past dalliances.” She laughs mirthlessly. “As if we both haven’t had partners. Neither of us are blushing virgins, Sebastian, and you were surprisingly open about your whoring ways before.”

The word stings, and his head snaps to the side as he looks away, off towards that same point on the horizon she’d been focused on. For a while they’re both quiet, the space between them colder than the air around them. 

“I can’t have children.” She says it so quietly that he’s not sure he’s heard, but he can’t bring himself to ask her to repeat it.

“Hawke, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Again, she chuckles, shaking her head. “It was an infection when I was young, a child. I’ve come to terms with it. Look at my life.” She throws her arms wide. “There was no chance I was going to bring a child into that, into Kirkwall and the mess. And no, you didn’t know. You never asked, it wasn’t important. Or you just assumed that we would continue on as we are, I suppose.”

“I don’t understand.”

She turns to look at him, no smile, no attempt at laughter this time. “I know you don’t like to think about the future, but you have to. You will need an heir, and I can’t be a part of that, vows or no vows. Listening to that conversation earlier, it makes it hard for me to see a place in your future for me.”

There is nervous laughter in Sebastian’s sigh this time, and he rubs at the back of neck even as he shakes his head, looking away, and then down at the dimly lit street, barely visible through the trees that have grown up around the balcony. When his eyes come back to her, he sees fear there -- of pain that will come, loss that will come. 

“I am too selfish a man for there to be no future for us, Padi. When I look at you, a future with you is all I see, it’s all I want. The Chantry, the nobility, my parents if they were alive -- all of them would want to see me with a woman who can provide me with an heir, someone who can ensure that there will be Vaels on the throne for generations to come. And perhaps I am a poor example of a Prince, that such a thing isn’t at the forefront of my mind.”

“You’re not a poor Prince,” she replies, and he believes her when she says it. There’s no hint of idle praise, and it warms him to hear. “You’re going to do a lot of good for Starkhaven.”

He nods, smiling at her. “I hope so, but that’s also my point. I am going to do good. I am the Prince, I am the one who is here, now, making decisions and helping my city. If I am to plan a future, then I want to plan my own future, not that of some theoretical heir. I’ve seen what can happen -- I  _ am  _ what can happen as a result of careful planning, and what can happen when those plans go awry. So perhaps it is some failing on my part as ruler, but I have not thought about a future with children. The life I led until now made that an impossibility. I’ve made my peace with that, and that hasn’t changed.” Sebastian reaches out to take her hand, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “I have, however, thought a great deal about a future with you. Even if Isabela is right, even if I have a dozen bastards in this city--”

Hawke draws a sharp breath and Sebastian stops. Heat that was cooled by the evening air returns in force on his neck and his face.

“It’s possible,” he mutters. “It’s not as if I kept count. Not after a while, anyway.”

“Even if there are a dozen?” She prompts him after a moment’s silence, tugging a little on his hand.

Sebastian takes a breath and meets her eyes again. “Yes. Even if there are a dozen, they change nothing between us. They are my past, but you and I, this is the future I want. Never doubt that.”

He brings her hand up, bowing his head to kiss it, and is rewarded with her other hand in his hair, curling behind his ear. Her smile is warm and sure when he looks up at her again, all the earlier fear banished from her eyes, and he is relieved to see it.

“I’m sorry I stormed out.”

“Not at all. I needed a break as well.” He sighs. “I don’t think Isabela understands how difficult this is for me to talk about. I don’t think any of them do really. It’s fun to them, drinking and sex, the idea that I was so wild once. And I want to say that I don’t mind.” He pushes a hand through his hair and shakes his head. He wants to say it, and he wants it to be true. Sometimes it is, but not always, and particularly not tonight. “I spend a lot of time trying not to mind, every morning I meditate on putting my past behind me, being proud of who I am now and not letting it overwhelm me, but sometimes I wish I could make them understand without having to explain it all. They are my closest friends, but some things I am not prepared to share with them.” He shakes his head. 

“What about me?” She ducks her head a little to catch his downcast gaze, and the question comes in a soft, uncertain whisper.

Fear runs down his spine like frost, sharp crystals that scratch when he shifts his weight, and hurt when he breathes. “I will. I want to, I do, but I can’t yet, not tonight. It’s been too much already. I’m not ready, I’m not sure I can say it all out loud, not to someone that I admire and care for as much as I do with you, someone who’s opinion of me matters more than I ever thought it could.”

Hawke sets a finger to his lips and smiles at him, warm and understanding.

“We should get back inside before they start making up wild conspiracy theories about us, too.”

She takes his hand to lead him away from the balcony, and her touch helps, loosening some of the tightness in his throat and in his jaw, but this evening has opened a wound in him that will not be closed for good until it’s purged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	15. History and History Books

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabela's speculations from the night at the tavern continue to roll around Sebastian's mind. When a moment with Hawke turns more intimate than he is prepared for, he decides it's time to explain his past to her in more detail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beautiful art for this chapter is by mutantenfisch on tumblr, [originally posted here.](https://mutantenfisch.tumblr.com/post/189868556891/a-commissioned-illustration-for-gremlinquisitors)
> 
> Please note that this chapter does include discussion of Sebastian's past, which includes alcohol abuse and references to sex with dubious consent, though without explicit details.

The morning starts grey and rainy, yet another day confined to the Keep as clouds roll slowly past Starkhaven. Try as he might, he finds it impossible to linger in bed, old Chantry habits mixing with current anxieties. Sleep has been difficult, and he’s not sure he’s gotten anything like proper rest in days. How long did he lie awake, staring at the canopy of his bed and replaying the evening yet again, thinking of Isabela’s words and Hawke’s reaction to them? 

More than a week has passed since that evening, but the subject invades his days and nights alike, distracting him at meetings and pulling him into reveries that he surfaces from to find hours have passed, meals uneaten and messages unanswered. He wants to be able to flatly deny it, all of it - illegitimate children as well as the idea that his parents or the Chantry may have known of them and not told him. There is no evidence for any of it, but the passage of time has done nothing to reassure him, instead making him more eager to search for proof that may well not exist.

He rings for breakfast, then heads into the bathroom. The Keep, like many estates in the upper part of the city, is rigged with pipes to bring water in from the Minanter. Clean, and fresh to drink, but unspeakably cold almost year-round, and so he sets about lighting a fire under the tub to heat the water as it fills. A servant could do it, but he’s not ready to see anyone yet, his mind too filled with thoughts of both his past and his future as he gathers soaps and towels.

He hisses as he sinks down into the tub, the sharp, herbal scent of soap filling his head, old and familiar, conjuring up other such mornings when his head had a different reason for aching, his stomach sour from drink rather than the turbulence inside him. It’s not the same, and yet too similar for comfort, so much of his distress brought on by memories of a past that Sebastian is grateful to have buried, and worse still by the lack of memory.

There could be children in Starkhaven that he has fathered, though they would barely be children now, people the same age that he was when he sired them. He wants the idea to be preposterous, but he knows himself, knows who he is and who he was. He was never careful, caught up in the invincibility of youth, as if the security of his status meant that nothing could happen unless he willed it. The Maker, however, cares not for one’s status when it comes to the creation of a new life. 

And again, he finds himself in a precarious situation with Hawke. Her reaction was unexpected, though understandable in the light of the secret that she’d shared with him. His reassurance seemed enough to still her fears that night; they’d all been laughing together by the time they returned to the Keep, and yet his unease remains, that he has somehow hurt her again. All of this is new for him, this intimate and specific concern for the heart of another. His time with the Chantry taught him compassion that he never possessed in his youth, but it did little to prepare him for navigating a relationship. It was never a consideration, and now that it is, he has nowhere to turn for guidance. 

“Blessed Andraste. In you, I first came to know beauty, wisdom, strength and kindness. I learned patience and forgiveness in you and those who serve you. I swore to take no bride but you, but I must confess that you are not the only woman in my heart.”

His voice reverberates in the quiet room, even as he whispers, and the ticking of the water against the side of the tub is loud in his head. His prayers to Andraste are often less informal than when he speaks with the Maker, but his heart is in his throat now.

“Guide me, Andraste. Show me how to care for her as you have cared for us all. Her heart still shines, even after all the evil that she has endured in her life. She has seen loss, and hardship, and yet she continues to serve and to want to help others. She inspires me as you do, and with her at my side I am a better man, and I know that I will be a better Prince. Yet I fear losing her.” His voice trembles, and he pushes a hand back through his hair where it’s fallen onto his forehead, damp and sweaty. “I do not ask you to keep her here, but to show me how to be a man that she will always want to be with. Grant me the grace to love her completely, fearlessly. I do not want my heart to feel divided forever.”

He finishes his bath quickly, wanting to be done before the water cools. The room is cold as he dresses, thoughts no clearer for his meditation and prayer in the bath. Hawke said that she would help him, but he must also find a way forward for himself. All responsibility for this can not rest with her. 

He pulls a loose tunic over his head, leaving the tie at the neck open as he slips on a pair of soft, worn breeches. It’s hardly the attire of a Prince, but he has no meetings today, no appointments. Seneschal Granger will likely ask to speak with him because he can not go a day without finding something that requires Sebastian’s input, but Granger has adjusted to seeing the Prince in casual attire. He is learning to enjoy the soft silks that his brothers preferred, but today he wants something warmer and more familiar against his skin. 

Sebastian leaves his room and heads off in the direction of the kitchen. There was no breakfast waiting when he’d left the bath; it’s unusual, but it can be an opportunity. He always found great peace in baking bread in the Chantry kitchens. Perhaps he can continue his contemplation in a similar fashion here as well. 

He passes the door to one of the Keep’s smaller reading rooms only to pause and turn. Hawke is standing by the shelves, hands folded behind her back, walking slowly along the rows of books. Her hair is bundled into a knot at the nape of her neck, and she is wearing a wine-colored tunic over pale leggings. The tunic’s color and fabric are richer than he’s used to seeing her in, but it suits her, and his gaze lingers on her as he steps into the doorway, leaning on the frame. 

The old wood creaks when he sets his weight against it and she pauses, then turns to face him. It is less than a second, but it stretches out before him, the time between when she sees him and when she smiles at him, and he can breathe again, caught in his admiration of her.

“I was looking for something on the history of the city,” she explains, waving a hand towards the books. “I know a great deal about Kirkwall, and while I can only hope that there is not so much to know about Starkhaven, the way that you talk about it, I’m curious.”

Sebastian returns the smile and steps into the room, coming to stand as close to her side as he dares. Every nerve in his body reacts to her very presence, leaving him nervous, his skin sensitive as if he’s spent too long in the sun, every brush of contact that much more intense, but with pleasure instead of pain.

“There are some volumes here, but I’m afraid they’re all rather dry.” He takes a chance, setting a hand on the small of her back and guiding her to a set of shelves closest to one of the long, narrow windows. Rain hammers against the glass, but there is still enough light to see by, and even if there wasn’t, Sebastian knows the books by heart. “They’re on this shelf here, but if there really is more you want to know, we could go out again, or I could tell you more. My father thought it was important that we all knew the history of the city - even though I was often reminded that I would be in no position to use it, as I would not be leading it.” His laugh is dry, and he closes his eyes a moment to banish the shadow that threatens to settle on him. 

His hand is still at her back, and he can feel the warmth of her, even with so little contact. When she leans in against his side, it threatens to be overwhelming. 

“I’d like that, for us to do that again. I enjoyed myself when we were in the city, Sebastian. Thank you.” She is watching him when he looks down again to meet her gaze, and for a moment they simply smile at each other. “I rather thought that I might spend today reading, however. There is something peaceful about a good book on a rainy day, a warm fire and a comfortable chair. Perhaps some pleasant company.”

Her smile breaks open into a grin, and Sebastian is quick to return it, his stomach filled with butterflies, a feeling he hasn’t known since his adolescence.

“Well.” He clears his throat and guides her again to a new set of shelves, these in a corner at the opposite end of the wall. “If it’s a  _ good  _ book you’re after, I recommend this one over here.” 

“How do you know where every book is in this room?”

Sebastian ducks his head, amused and a little impressed at her observation. “This was-- is, I suppose, my reading room. We have the larger library downstairs, but I was a voracious reader when I was young, and I wanted somewhere more my own, with just my favorite books all collected together. There are no shortage of rooms in the Keep, so I was allowed to choose one, and move all the books I wanted. Some, I’ve forgotten, but this one was very much a favorite. I’m surprised it’s on its place on the shelf and not still lying on the table.” 

He leans past her to pluck a faded blue tome from the shelf, smiling at it fondly as he turns it over in his hands. The weight of it and the feel of the cover bring back memories both endless and specific, of evenings spent reading on his own and days spent tucked into his bed with his grandfather beside him. “I thought about it often when I was in Kirkwall,” he muses as he offers it to her. 

“What is it?” Her eyes flick from him to the book and back, and she turns it over in her hands as she waits for his answer, even opening it to flip quickly through the pages. Sebastian sees familiar illustrations flutter past and feels a pang of affection at the thought of sharing this with her.

“Tales of the Second Blight. It’s history, this one as well, but told like the grand story that is really was. And now that I think of it, this will satisfy your first quest as well. Did you know the Second Blight ended here in Starkhaven?”

She looks up at him with a raised eyebrow, as if she’s not quite sure she believes him, so he continues, taking the book back from her and opening it to the right page. “The Tale of Corin and Neriah, and the Slaying of the Archdemon Zazikel. It’s a terribly romantic tale, this one. My grandfather used to read it to me when I was sick as a child.”

Hawke looks down at the book, craning her neck as if trying to read it while he holds it. “What happened?”

“The Grey Warden Neriah was a mage. She went with the Warden Corin, her lover, to Starkhaven to battle the Archdemon. She was slain by the crossbow bolt of a Darkspawn Emissary as they made their charge, took the bolt so that Corin would have an opening to slay the Archdemon, and he did, but he died as well. I pored over the books in here trying to figure out where in the city it might have happened, but I still don’t know, and there’s nothing in Starkhaven to mark it. I’d like to have something, if I could only find the spot. A statue, perhaps, with the both of them.”

When he looks up from the book, she is watching him again, fondness in her eyes and the soft set of her smile. He chuckles, lowering the book and rubbing at the back of his neck with his free hand. “Sorry,” he sighs. “It’s a favorite, and I guess I get a little carried away.”

“I think it’s sweet. History is real people, not all dusty dates and tales of deeds. These were people who did these things. And you’re right, that is a romantic story. Even if you did tell me the ending,” she quips as she takes the book back out of his hand and closes it.

He hadn’t considered that, and for a moment he thinks it’s yet another misstep, until he sees that she’s still smiling, still watching him as if searching his face for something. Even in the cold, grey light of the room, she is beautiful, and her attention on him warms him, emboldens him. 

“Do you like romantic stories?” He asks, taking a step towards her. She retreats, only just enough to put distance between them so that she can focus on his face.

“I suppose I do,” she replies, curiosity curling into her voice. “I must admit, I was never a big reader when I was young. Never liked stories about handsome Princes. Then I grew up.”

He laughs again, quiet and warm, as he takes another step. “And has your opinion on Princes and romance changed then, now you’ve grown up?”

She continues in the dance, but this time when she steps away, her foot hits the bottom of the shelves behind her, and Sebastian wastes no time in crowding her against them. Her touch is like a brand when she sets her hand on his side, and he can feel his pulse in his throat, hear it as a complement to the dull rumble of the rain. He can also feel the rise and fall of her chest as well, and hear the trembling in her breath. 

Her eyes dart from side to side, then down to his mouth, then away again. “Of course it has. Sebastian, are you sure about this?”

“Is there anyone else here?” He asks, voice low and soft. He mirrors her, setting a hand on her waist and moving even closer against her. She is warm, and she’s breathing harder than necessary. He probably is, too, he realizes. It’s been a long time since he did this, and he fears it’s showing.

She shakes her head. “No.” Her voice is whisper-soft to match his, and she looks up at him from under her lashes. “We’re all alone up here. I just-- Are you sure you want to do this?”

He brings his other hand up to the side of her neck, brushing his thumb along her jawline. Her eyes flutter closed, and she leans into the touch.

“Apadiel.” He kisses her, mouth closing on her lower lip as he says her name. He hears the book fall to the floor, and he feels her other hand on his waist, pulling them closer together. Her head falls against his hand, and he runs his thumb gently along her cheek, drinking in as much sensation as he can.

Her eyes fall closed, but he can’t resist the urge to keep looking at her, to see the way she relaxes, the lines that form with the hint of a smile that he feels against his lips. The jagged scar on her face is nearly healed, no longer angry or dangerous but instead pale and smooth. In time, it will fade and soften, just as every part of her is soft. He marvels at it as he kisses her - her lips, her skin, even the sigh that catches in her throat - all of it is soft. 

He teases at her lower lip with his tongue, not wanting to take more than he’s allowed. She tastes like coffee, a luxurious import that he distantly notes he’ll have to keep on hand for her. Her smile widens, and she opens her mouth against him, deepening the kiss, tilting her head to fit them together. Her arm wraps around his waist, and he moves his hand up into her hair, cradling the back of her head.

He wants to be careful with her. Every conscious thought he’s had about this, about her, has told him to go slowly, not to push, to let her show him and to wait for her, and he tries to do this even now. He wants her more than he has wanted anything in years, more than vengeance, more than redemption, more than freedom. She is warm and solid and real against him, smelling of clean cloth and kissing him like he has not been kissed in years, and he feels his strength failing him. 

She slides one hand up his chest to caress the crook of his neck and his jawline, and then she moves again, her hand going to his hair, mirroring the way that he is holding her. Her nails light sparks on his scalp, and he whimpers, low in his throat, as his long-dormant body reacts to her. He breathes her air, swallowing, gasping for a breath as she presses herself against him. He wants to know if that softness extends to every part of her, and for not the first time he finds himself imagining, but now it’s really happening, and it would be so easy for him to give in to this dizzy sensation, to take her and be with her and--

Hawke holds him fast, tries to stop him when he begins to move away. “I have to go.” 

She shakes her head, the tip of her nose brushing against his. “No, you don’t, Sebastian. Please don’t go.”

He is already retreating, slipping his arm out from around her slender body and stepping away. He will find somewhere to retreat to that isn’t the battlements, somewhere where can collect his thoughts and still the fires within him. Again his foundations are shifting within him, and if doesn’t shore them up with prayer and meditation and time away from her, he is afraid of what will become of him. 

Her hand wraps around his wrist as he turns to go, and she steps to follow him.

“I said please don’t go. Stay. We don’t have to.”

His words from earlier come back to him.  _ Make me someone she wants by her side for always.  _ To be that man means to stay now, to explain to her. 

He twists in her loose grip, shifting to take her hand and lock their fingers together. She moves behind him, taking a step forward and setting her other hand in the center of his back.

“We don’t have to do anything,” she whispers. “I’m not asking for--”

“I know.” He turns to face her. “I know you’re not. This is difficult for me. There’s more to it than that, and I want to try to explain, I think, if you’ll listen.”

He leads her to the couch in the middle of the room. They sit, and he moves to the far side, away from her, holding out a hand when she starts to follow. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever truly be ready to tell her all of this, but if he is going to try, then he needs some distance. 

“The other night, when Isabela…” He lets the sentence trail off, but Hawke nods. They both recall what Isabela talked about that evening, but Sebastian’s shame makes the words stick on his tongue, and he doesn’t want to speak frankly of it again with Hawke if he mustn’t.

“I know I’ve mentioned my past before, the boy I was before I went into the Chantry. I don’t like to talk about it, I’m not proud of it, but it still affects me. It’s still a part of me, even if I am not that wild young man any more. Even if Isabela’s suspicions should prove empty, my past still exists. If you want to be with me, you have a right to know more about it.” 

Hawke waits with her hands folded in her lap, watching him with wide, pensive eyes. “You don’t have to tell me more than you’re comfortable with, Sebastian.”

He nods. There is no doubt in his mind that she means it, but the amount that he is comfortable telling her is none, so there is no way for the two thoughts to go together. “May I? Would it be terribly strange if I kneel?” He asks, gesturing towards the floor in front of the couch.

“You wouldn’t rather sit?” She asks, uncertain.

He shakes his head. “For some things, this feels more natural, after fifteen years of doing it.” The smile he offers is weak, his face too heavy to lift the corners of his mouth. It doesn’t reach his eyes, and there’s no real comfort behind it.

She nods, though he sees her watching as he sinks down to the floor beside her, folding his hands and resting them on the couch.

“Do you want me to do anything, say anything?”

“Just listen, please. And be patient.” He holds her gaze for a moment, then looks away. “And forgive me.”

He closes his eyes and takes one deep breath, then another, sorting the words in his head and looking for where to begin. He opens his eyes again as he begins to speak, frowning at his thumbs in front of him.

“I was very much alone in my family, from the start. It would be unfair to say of my parents that I was unwanted, but they had the children they needed, and they were practical people. I was well taken care of, but there was no room for me in their plans, and so I was given an unusual amount of freedom, even from a young age. My grandfather, and archery, helped when I was a young boy, but after he passed, there was no one to dote on me. We were the same, he and I, in a way - extras, unnecessary, too precious to be rid of but without purpose.”

He hears her moving around on the couch, sees her come to sit closer, legs hanging over the side, her calf only just brushing his arm, a reminder that she is close, but he shifts away, not wanting the contact. He can’t turn to her yet. The beginning is easy enough to tell, so old that it feels almost like a well-recalled story about someone else. It’s not, though, and the worst is yet to come.

The words come more slowly as he continues, phrases coming in clumps, each thought carefully considered before it’s shared with her. He has told parts of this story to others before, and while those words are worn smooth with time and telling, he is still reluctant to lay them out before Hawke. 

“As we all grew older, my brothers had less time for me. They had training to attend to, the groundwork for the duties they would take on later in life. There was no such plan for me, and so I went out into the city in search of, well, anything. I can’t say what I wanted, I just didn’t want to be at home. I was sheltered, had no idea what to do in the city, didn’t even know what an ale cost in a tavern. When I pulled out my coin, however, well, I was suddenly quite popular.” The laugh he punches out is dry and humorless. “After that, it didn’t take long for me to start spending time with the people I met there, with the women. Girls, really. I wasn’t a man yet, either, for that matter. I was a boy, and so were they, some of them.” He draws a breath, waits to see if this draws any reaction from her. When he glances up again, she’s watching him, hands in her lap, her expression open and patient, and sad. 

He nods, more to himself than to her, and continues. “Aye, I tried that too, and I did enjoy it, but there were more girls than boys, and some of them were older. Most of them were kind, and made me feel wanted there, really wanted me. It’s not as if I paid all of them, not at all,” he adds, shaking his head. “To know that I had all of someone’s attention, that I was all they wanted, even if it was only in those moments, I started to crave it, like drink.” He opens his hands, fingers like claws in front of him as he recalls the feeling of it, the rawness of his skin, so sensitive that he could fall for the first person to touch him. 

“I wasn’t missed at home, but in the city, I was welcomed, both in the parlors of nobles and at the taverns of the lower circles. We drank and laughed, and I spent the night in many a bed other than my own, seeking real connection with another soul. Being taken to bed, told I was beautiful, I was wanted, it was as intoxicating as the liquor. It made me feel worth something to someone, so I never said no.” The last words are mumbled as emotion rushes over him.

He draws a ragged breath and squeezes his eyes closed, trying to fight back the shame that threatens to overwhelm him. It is as if he is once again a young man of twenty years, spilling his life’s misery and mistakes out to Elthina, the first person who allowed him to take the time to find the words for himself. 

Fingers comb softly through his hair, pushing it back away from his face where it’s fallen when he lowered his head. 

“Please don’t,” Sebastian whispers, and she shies away. He opens his eyes to see Hawke’s fingers curl into her palm and her fist settle on the couch beside him. “I can’t.” He sighs, his voice cracking. “It feels wrong, when I talk about this. It’s not you, Padi.”

He looks up again, and Hawke is staring straight ahead, trying to give him privacy when they are two together in the room. Sebastian has no hope of maintaining dignity in this; he can already feel the sting in his eyes and the lump in his throat. She nods without looking at him, and he wants to reach out to her, to convince himself that he is deserving of the comfort and affection that she is offering him, but his skin is crawling underneath his clothes, and there’s a thick, burning taste in his mouth.

“It was never enough, and so it became a cycle: I was hurting, so I drank to stop feeling. Then I sought out a bed to try to feel something else, and I did, but it was too little, shallow and fleeting, and the pain would be worse afterwards, and so back to the bottle, and on to another bed. Even the pain wasn’t enough. It was as is if, no matter what I tried, I couldn’t truly feel.” His voice breaks again, and he stares hard at his hands where he’s dropped them to his lap, knuckles white with exertion. “It was ugly, I was ugly, but I hid it well, to judge from the others around me. It troubled my parents, but not enough to intervene, not at first. I’m not sure they could have, to be honest. My bond to them felt like it was already broken. It wasn’t until I lost them that I realized it wasn’t, and never truly could be.”

Sebastian sobs, a sharp pull of breath followed by the punch of an exhale, and it’s loud in the room. Hawke’s hand moves through his hair again, and he follows it this time, lifts his chin and looks up at her as he leans into the touch. She appears to wake, blinking as she looks down at him, her eyes shining with tears as well.

“I always loved the Maker and Andraste, and imagined myself being pledged to the Chantry at the end of my years. Being sent away so young, I was taken from everything I knew, everything that made me happy or allowed me to feel a part of something. I was alone, again. And then I met Mother Elthina and she offered me a choice, something my parents hadn’t done.” He pauses to collect himself, his thoughts of Elthina threatening to interrupt him and send him into despair of a different sort. He breathes, settling his mind and focusing on where he is now, that he is safe and with someone who cares about him. 

When he begins again, his voice is calmer. “In the end, I stayed with the Chantry, and through her guidance, and the love of the Maker, I found a new way to connect to the world, and to the people around me. I could reach out to help, to heal and listen, and find that my heart was lightened by being in service to others. There was no question in my mind when it came time to take my vows. I saw it as one more reassurance that I was leaving that part of my life behind.”

He has no idea how much time has passed since he started, but now he finds himself coming to the part which he hopes will explain his hesitancy towards her. For him, it seems that no explanation can be enough, but he wants to try. 

“I am a man who craves deeply, and that craving for connection, to belong. To say that it was replaced by the Chantry is not entirely correct. The Chantry does not muddle the mind like alcohol. For me, it opened my mind, showed me a new way to live that fulfilled me, took the poison from my soul.” The words come before he can stop them, and he looks up at her, suddenly needing her to understand this point in particular. “To lay with another is not a poison for everyone, and I don’t mean to say that it would be with you. Please. I would never want you to think--”

“I know.” She nods, and it’s not quite a smile that she gives him, but he sees in her eyes that she does understand, how she is different from all the others, and how that would make it better, but could also make it so much worse.

“My vow forced me to stop doing something that was hurting me. I burned those sins out of myself,” he mutters, turning his hand to look at his palm. There is no scar; he was always careful to keep his hand high enough above the flame and to pause between passes, but he recalls well the pain and the heat, the feeling of renewal afterwards, as if nothing else could cleanse him like the fire. “To turn my back on it is to risk returning to a path that I swore I would never walk again. When I told you that if I broke my vows to be with you, I would not be worthy of you, that is what I meant, Apadiel. The man I was was not worthy of the kindness you give me, and I do not want to see you with him, not if I can prevent it.”

“Sebastian, it’s okay,” she whispers, and he aches with how much he wants to believe her. We talked about this, it’s--”

“No. Let me finish.” His head falls back and he stares up at the ornate chandelier above them, tracing the curves of the metal as a way to still his mind. “I have never felt this way about anyone before, I never imagined it in my life. You are more than I could ever have dreamed of, but it frightens me.” Tears roll freely down his cheeks, and when Hawke settles on the floor beside him and moves to pull him close, he shakes his head and stiffens. “I never thought that I would want someone like this, but the thought of giving in scares me. I want you, but I don’t know what will happen if I let myself have you, and every time I kiss you it gets harder to stop myself.”

They are both quiet while Sebastian calms himself, fighting back control over his breathing and his emotions. Hawke breathes with him, mirroring the deep inhalations and blowing her breath out with a gentle hiss. It grounds him, and he follows her lead, finding his way to his center again. 

“I understand if, from the outside, giving in would look like freedom. The choice to commit oneself to the Chantry, to chastity and to Andraste, is not one that should be taken lightly. I struggled at the start; I lost so much of who I was, and the physical effects of giving up drinking are not something that’s talked about a lot.” He chuckles at that, even as his stomach turns, reminding him of evenings spent hunched over a bucket, and days spent shivering in his bed. “To go back to that would be easy, and I know that it would be pleasurable. I was in pieces when I arrived in Kirkwall. I rebuilt myself, and my vows are an important part of that.”

His head falls to the side and he looks her over, but she only shakes her head and motions for him to continue. “Andraste saved me from myself. The way that I was living would have killed me. She saved my life, and I will gladly spend that life repaying my debt to her, showing my gratitude. Keeping my vow gives me freedom from a life I don’t want to return to, but it will take me time to find the strength to be with you as freely as I want to be, without fear.”

Sebastian exhales, and for a while they sit in silence. His ears are ringing and his hands ache from where he’d held them together so tightly. He replays his words in his head, searching for something he might have missed, something more that he can say to reassure her that his weaknesses, fears and failings are confined to himself alone and nothing to do with her. 

“May I say something?” Hawke rubs her hands on the thighs of her leggings.

“Of course,” Sebastian replies, almost chuckling. “Please, by all means. I think I’ve said more than my fair share so far.”

She offers him a pale smile that fades quickly. “I will never push you to give me more than you want to, but I would like it if you stopped running away.” He opens his mouth to reply and she stops him with a look, her eyes widening only enough to tell him she’s not finished. “I understand why you do, and I never want you to be afraid when you’re with me. I must admit, however, that I would like it if you could stop yourself without having to run to the other end of the Keep. I think it would be good for you to work on that.”

He blushes, but the feeling that comes with it is a light sort of embarrassment, based on a single action that he hopes can be easily corrected. He nods. “I’d like that, too.”

Her gaze flicks from his eyes to his mouth and back. “Would it be all right if I kissed you? Just a little one.”

He grins and nods, grateful that she asked, but also surprised at how prepared he now feels for the idea of it. 

Hawke leans in, setting one hand on his knee, and presses her lips to his. She is achingly gentle with him, bringing her other hand up to cup the side of his face, keeping the kiss light, doing what she can to show him that he can pull away at any time. He returns the kiss with the same sweetness, watching as she smiles against his mouth.

They part, Hawke trailing her fingers along his cheek as she moves away from him. She catches her lower lip between her teeth and smiles at him, shyer than he can ever recall seeing her before.

“Oh, there you are! Wait a minute, why are you on the floor?” Merrill’s voice comes first, then Merrill herself appears, leaning over the back of the couch. “Have you fallen down, Sebastian?”

The moment between Sebastian and Hawke is clearly over, and Sebastian laughs, shaking his head as he pushes himself to his feet. This is another new sensation, to find that he’s not at all embarrassed to be seen like this with Hawke.

Which is not to say that he’s not embarrassed, as Merrill rounds the end of the couch to put a hand on his chest. 

“Are you sure you’re all right? You look like you’ve been crying. Hawke, is he all right?” Merrill looks from Sebastian to Hawke and back, her expression slowly opening from concern to confusion as the two of them smile and nod.

“I’m fine, Merrill. Better than I have been in a while, in fact, but you’re a good friend to worry so.” He puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes, and she relaxes.

“What I am,” Sebastian continues, “is hungry. I was on my way to the kitchen when I found Hawke in here - not on the floor either,” he adds. “Would either of you ladies be interested in some freshly baked bread? Come on, let’s go see if there’s any fennel I can add to it.”

He leads Merrill out of the reading room, keeping his arm around her shoulders. Hawke walks on his other side, reaching out to loop their pinky fingers together as the three of them make their way to the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to know more about the end of the Second Blight? "[A Tale of Corin and Neriah](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22186231)" is my entry for _In Peace, Vigilance: A Grey Warden Zine_
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	16. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian's lingering concerns regarding his family and his past in Starkhaven are addressed, and secrets are brought to light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags on this fic have been updated to reflect the content of this chapter.

The last time Sebastian got a note in flowing, feminine script, asking him to meet the sender alone at night, it turned out to be Elthina offering him his life back when he first came to the Chantry. The memory follows him as he makes his way to the throne room, warming and stinging at the same time, like a burn that serves as a reminder of a day spent in the sun. He expects no such offer this time; anyone who thinks to persuade him to walk away from the throne would likely come with violence, not a secret missive, and particularly not one scented with rich, spicy perfume; familiar, but too heavy to be Hawke’s.

The memory’s warmth disappears, however, when he turns the corner to see someone sitting on the throne. The room is dark, with no candles lit, only starlight falling in cold patches on the floor on either side of the carpet. The throne itself is almost entirely in shadow, with only just enough light for Sebastian to make out the shape of a person, and see when they shift, resting their cheek on their fist, elbow on the arm of his throne.

Sebastian slips a dagger out of the inconspicuous sheath at the small of his back. He hoped he wouldn’t need it, but he’s not about to go to a secret meeting unarmed, either. He slows his steps and turns slightly, knowing he’s lost the element of surprise on the intruder. If he’s lucky, perhaps they don’t know who he is, or that he’s armed.

He flips the dagger in his grip and it catches the light, winking to the figure on the throne. Sebastian sees it and freezes, his heart in his throat. A laugh bubbles up and fills the chamber, dark and sweet. “Oh, sweet prince, I think we both know I’m faster with a blade, but if you want to dance, we can dance.”

Sebastian sighs heavily, rolling his eyes so hard that his head moves with them. “Isabela.” He tucks the blade back into its sheath and closes the distance to the throne. “You know, if I’d not been me, you might be dead already.”   
  
The reply is answered with another laugh. Isabela disappeared the morning after their day in the market, and Sebastian had worried that his discomfort at her mention of bastards led to her leaving. Both Bethany and Hawke reassured him that this was standard Isabela behavior and that she would turn up in a few days’ time. It’s been longer than that, but now that he knows what to look for, her high boots and pale chemise are easier to see in the low light. He can even make out her eyes, and her smirk when she slips from the throne to stand.

“What sort of greeting is that? I’ve brought you a present and everything.” She moves around the side of the throne to lift up a bag hidden behind it. Sebastian climbs the steps to meet her, watching as she sets the bag on the throne’s seat with a thud and flips open the top.

“This is where I’ve been,” she explains, waving a hand at the bag. “I had to break in to find it, but find it I did it. They keep impeccable records, I’ll give them that.”

Isabela sets her fists and her hips and sighs as if personally disappointed in her own gift. Now that Sebastian’s eyes have fully adjusted, he takes in her chemise where it’s smudged with ash and dust, and her usual look of pride is missing as she frowns down at her prize. When she looks up, he offers Sebastian something like concern, nodding towards the bag. “Go on, then.”

Sebastian sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I am Prince now, Isabela. I have any door in the city opened with a word.”

She raises her eyebrows. “You’re not on the best terms with the Chantry here lately, and the information in this book, I’m not sure you could get it.” Her shoulders droop and she gives Sebastian her most put-upon pout. “Plus it’s been days since I picked a lock. I had to make sure I still knew how.”

He gives her a dry look as he pulls the bag open. Inside is a broad but thin book with uneven edges on the pages and a red ribbon hanging out where it’s been set to mark a page. The rest of the space is filled with letters, and even more fall out when he picks up the book and lets it fall open in his hands. The spine cracks and complains as he presses it open, waving his hand and coughing as the dust dissipates.

He doesn’t need to ask her to know what this is. He understands now why she’d disappeared, why she didn’t tell anyone or ask them to come along. He would have stopped her if he’d known what she was planning, but now that it’s done, he is not ungrateful, either. This was not how he wanted to obtain this information, if it existed at all, but Isabela is not wrong - the Chantry would have been hard-pressed to admit records of his wilder days existed, much less show them to him. 

“It’s not  _ all  _ there,” she offers, as if to absolve herself. “There was a chest, too, but it was too big for me to just walk out with. Not huge, mind, but there were definitely more books like that one.”

Sebastian nods as she talks, but he is already trying to read and barely hears her. He takes the book and moves away from the throne, stopping when he reaches the light from the window and turning so that his own shadow doesn’t obscure the writing. Behind him, he hears Isabela following, the scrape of her boots on stone loud in the otherwise silent chamber.

He’s opened the book to the page marked by the ribbon, and both pages are covered with neatly lined rows - names, ages, dates. Isabela’s right - there would be more books like this one. There must be; The Chantry demands it of every Circle.

“It’s a registry, looks like,” Isabela explains, her voice uncharacteristically gentle, and Sebastian hates that she thinks that he needs that from her. He can feel the warmth of her skin where she stands near his elbow, close but not touching. “From a few years you left the city. I thought it was a good place to start.”

She thought right. The book is dated seven years after Sebastian left Kirkwall, which explains the ash on Isabela’s clothes; it was likely rescued from the Circle during or shortly after the fire. There, among the records of mages committed to the Circle that year, Sebastian finds a name - Albert Remy. The age indicates he was only a boy when he was placed there. The first name tells Sebastian nothing, but the last name brings to mind tight, dark curls and vibrant eyes, the allure of an Orlesian accent.

Delphine was her name, and if he’d forgotten, then it is carefully filled in on the line beneath labeled Mother.

On the line for Father:  _ S. V., Kirkwall Chantry. _

Dust swirls up into the cold starlight, motes sparkling around them when Sebastian heaves a sigh that rolls over the pages. He doesn’t want to admit it, but Isabela is right; it’s unlikely that the Chantry would have admitted to having the book. It’s evidence that a known royal heir was killed in a fire, the cause of which remains unknown. Sebastian suspected at the time that it might be connected to his family’s deaths, an attempt to upset the order of the city. If anyone else knew about this boy, however, then the possibility exists that he was targeted as well. It would have been all too easy for the Chantry to tell him that the book was lost in the fire.

“And yet I live,” Sebastian mutters to himself, staring down at the page. 

Isabela shifts beside him, uncomfortable and likely wanting to be gone as soon as possible. Recovery of artifacts is one thing; the fallout from what they contain is something different entirely.

“There’s more,” she says, “in the bag.” She sets a pair of letters on top of the pages, both of them long-since opened. Both were once sealed with the sign of his family, though the wax is cracked and dried from years of lying in a drawer, or pressed between the pages of a book.

Sebastian picks them up carefully, as if they’ll disintegrate at his touch. He closes the book and tucks it under his arm, turning the letters over in his hands. He glances back over his shoulder, nodding thanks to her. “What’s in them?”

“All sorts of things.” She waits, as if unsure how to continue. “That line in the book, there, for example. How do you think anyone knew that that boy was your son?”

He looks from Isabela to the letters in his hand and back, a sick sort of chill settling in his stomach. He opens the first letter without looking at it, finger sliding along the paper to unfold it.

“Who are these letters from, Isabela?” He’ll have the answer in a moment, and yet he asks again, as if it will hurt less coming from her than reading it in the handwriting of a friend.

Her head falls to the side, brow furrowed. It’s one of the softest expressions he’s ever seen her give him, and it worries him that much more. “There are a few different people. I didn’t read all of them, once I realized what it was--”

“What is it?”

She looks down at her hands. “Reports. Sent to your father, about your  _ activities  _ in your youth. Names, places. They kept track of her, of the others--”

“Others.” The letters slip from his hands, rustling where they land around his feet. He leaves them where they fall, not trusting himself to be able to bend down to pick them up without fainting. “I have more children? The others, who--”

“It’s in the letters.” She stands, holding her hands out in front of her as she takes a step back to put some space between them. “I don’t want to go through it with you piece by piece. I didn’t even read them all, but it’s there for you to read. You can use this to get more from the Chantry.”

Her sudden hesitancy to be near him is unsettling, and he moves to follow her, stopping only when his foot pushes at one of the dropped papers. “You’ve nothing to be afraid of,” he breathes. He tries for a smile but it’s too brittle and too heavy at once. “I’m grateful. Without you I might never have found these.” He pulls the book out from under his arm and gestures with his as if to emphasize his point.

Isabela shakes her head briskly, her hands falling to her sides. “I can’t stay for this part. I thought I could, I thought the chase would be longer, but I can’t, Sebastian. I’m glad to have helped, but I need to go before you start looking for them.”

Her words chill his blood, and the hand holding the book falls heavily to his side. “You knew you’d find these,” he muses, trying to piece it together while he talks. “When you mentioned bastards, you said there’s always a trail somewhere. How did you know about these?”

She wraps her arms around herself and looks down at the toe of her boot. “I didn’t know, exactly. It’s just what my husband would have done. Something like it, at least.”

Isabela takes another step away, then turns from him and walks back to the throne. She pulls out a coat and a bag of her own from the same place she’d set the bag for him.

“You don’t have to leave, Isabela. You don’t have to help more with this if you don’t want to.”

Even as he tries to offer her this, she is shaking her head, and he can see that she made her mind up before he even came to see her. 

“I hope you get what you want from this, Sebastian, but I can’t be here while it happens. I don’t expect you to understand.” Already she’s walking away, up the carpet towards the door to the throne room. “You’ll tell Hawke and the others, right? Good. All right then.”

And with that, she turns on her heel and hurries out through the door. Sebastian stands and watches until she is swallowed by the shadows of the Keep. She never looks back, and he is still for a long time after she goes, finally moving to collect the letters from the floor. He stuffs them back into the bag along with the book and carries it all back to his bedroom, locking the door behind him for the first time since he came to the Keep.

At first light, a page knocks on the door to the Chantry, carrying a note sealed with the sigil of the Prince, the wax still soft when the Revered Mother opens it. Sebastian has sent along enough information to make it clear that there is no reason not to give him what he asks for, and his request to the Chantry is handled with remarkable speed. Two fresh, bashful Templar recruits appear at the Keep before breakfast, and before the rest of the Keep is awake. That, Sebastian is glad of; he would prefer to look into this alone, collecting his thoughts and findings before telling the others. 

Each of the recruits holds one handle of a modest chest, no doubt the one that Isabela named. They walk in front of him with bowed heads and glance nervously at each other as he directs them through the Keep. The chest is set unceremoniously on the floor of his bedroom when they arrive, and the sound of it is less than Sebastian expected, yet somehow that offers no comfort.

One of the recruits casts a glance towards his desk, already covered with sorted letters, the registry lying open in the center where Sebastian sat up all night working. The other crouches in front of the chest, unlooping a long chain from around his neck with a key on the end. They are wearing robes rather than armor, and are so young that Sebastian imagines they spend more time in the kitchens than the training yard.

“You can leave that with me.” Sebastian holds out a hand, careful to keep his voice level. These boys are both younger than he was when he was sent to Kirkwall. It’s possible they have no idea what they’re delivering.

The boy turns to look up at him, one hand resting on the top of the chest. “Your Highness, The Revered Mother said--”

“I will make sure the Revered Mother knows that you did your duty,” he assures them, looking from one to the other. “I will deal with her,” he adds with a nod.

He glances down at Sebastian’s hand, then up at his face, before reluctantly giving him the key.

“I was where you are a few years ago myself. I understand that you’re nervous, but you’ve done nothing wrong. You can go back now.”

Sebastian stands and waits, key in hand, until the two fall into agreement that it is better to leave quietly than to try to argue with the Prince. He can imagine what sort of instructions the Revered Mother sent them with - that Sebastian was to be allowed to read, but not to keep the books, that one of them must stay with him at all times while he looked through them. That they were to be brought back at the end of the day. If she wants to place such restrictions on him finding out about his own life, however, she will have to come to the Keep and try to do so personally.

The chest sighs when Sebastian opens it, as if it has been waiting to tell someone the secrets it holds. He slips the key around his own neck, tucking it inside the high collar of his shirt before sitting up on his knees to get a better look at the content.

There are two more Chantry registers. They appear to have fallen over on top of the other books during the trip from the Chantry to the Keep. He lifts them up and leans them against the inside of the chest, forcing himself to take an inventory before delving into what the books could hold.

What he finds under the registers knocks the wind from him, and he sits down hard, rocking back away from the chest.

The rest of the books in the chest are smaller than the registers, with more neatly cut pages. They are all but one bound in the same brown leather, tied closed with a thin strip of the same, and each is set with a different stone. Some of them he recalls better than others, but with them collected together like this, he recognizes them instantly. His mother gave him a new journal every year on his birthday from the year he learned to write, and every year he filled them with thoughts and stories and plans.

And all of them are here in a locked chest that the Chantry was charged with looking after, gathered with other materials that detail his past.

His parents must have taken them after he’d left for Kirkwall, but that answers only one of the questions that come to life inside him. Did they read them, or were they summarily dumped into the chest to be locked away, so that no one else would? Did they find them after he’d left, or were they aware of them before as well? As a small boy he’d shared them happily with his family, showing them his first drawings, and the map he’d drawn of where he would go on adventures with the Grey Wardens when he was grown. However, as he’d grown and his thoughts became more intimate, so did his writings, pages filled with juvenile frustration over his parents’ attitude towards him, resentment over the loss of time with his brothers and best friends. He’d taken to hiding them in his room, even moving them when he suspected someone had found them. 

Yet if they’d found them, _ why did they do nothing _ ?

He rubs at his eyes and shifts again, returning to the chest. The loss that he’d felt on returning to his family home mingles with anger at the idea that they might have known how he was hurting, and grief at the knowledge that he will never know for sure. It threatens to overwhelm him, but he bites down on it and swallows it back inside his chest. It mingles with the air in his lungs and he blows it out breath by breath, willing himself to calmness. It is not wrong to be angry, but it will not help his purpose here. 

He runs his fingers over the cool stones on the front covers of the journals at the top of the pile. He no longer remembers which is which, and would have to read through him to find out. As inviting as the idea is, he will not find answers to these questions in his own writings; he suspects they may even have to serve as backup sources for his search for information about his bastards. Drink made his memory patchy, and it’s unlikely that he’s written down every name and every encounter. So for now, they will have to wait.

The last book in the pile is similar to the journals, but a size larger and less adorned. This he takes out first, plucking up the Chantry registers after he’s gotten to his feet. He looks first to his desk, but there is precious little free space on there already, with letters sorted into piles according to who sent them, burned-down candles nestled between the piles.

After a moment’s consideration, he turns instead to his bed. It is wide and flat, the blankets arranged neatly after Chantry standards, years of making his bed when he woke up turning out to be an unbreakable habit. He sets the books near the foot of the bed, then returns to his desk to gather the letters, careful not to disrupt his organization. He’d tried to read through them as he sorted them, but they do not make for light reading, and he’d given up on many of them partway through. The exploits that he does remember are routinely overshadowed by those he finds he has forgotten, or worse, those he does not recall at all, and so he focuses instead on names and dates, small stacks in chronological order.

Sebastian settles onto the bed, surrounded now by books and papers. He starts with the only book he doesn’t recognize, letting it fall open and flipping through the pages almost idly. He recognizes his father’s crisp handwriting, long lines of text with little interruption. Most entries are marked with dates, though some are missing. 

He turns back to the start of the book and begins to read, but soon finds himself overwhelmed. The book is a sort of journal for his father, as well as a collected record of the letters he’d started to read and sort during the night. 

The letters better serve their purpose when paired with the book, and so Sebastian sets them between the pages, matching messages to entries in the book. His father’s notes contain only initials, but most of the letters are signed. There are names that he doesn’t recognize, as well as some he does, and his stomach turns to find his former friends and bedfellows among those who were reporting back to his parents about his activity. Payment is implied in some and this is also noted in the journal; in others letters there is a simpler idea, that they wish to keep Sebastian safe, to make sure that his parents are aware. They don’t want to see him hurt himself, a sentiment expressed more than once, that he reads until his eyes sting with tears. He was already hurting himself, whether they chose to see it or not. Some wounds don’t bleed.

Slowly he reads through page after page describing nights of drinking and debauchery that he would have paled to be told of in the Chantry’s confessional. The thought of telling Mother Elthina, or anyone, of such things leaves him feeling ill; it’s all so much more than even what he’s confessed to Hawke, both in quantity and in detail. He sighs, sliding down off the bed to stand and stretch, then opens the window of his room, closing his eyes and breathing slowly, letting the cool air fill his body and still his heart and mind before returning to the work. He hears the city outside, and has heard footsteps in the hallway as well. Sooner or later, someone will knock on the door to ask after him, and while he doesn’t relish the idea of misleading whoever it may be, he can tell them with some honesty that he didn’t sleep well, and is not feeling up to the task of taking meetings for the day. 

Leaving the window open, Sebastian returns to the bed, folding his legs as he settles into the nest of papers he’s created. He can hear his father’s voice as he reads, his tone as flat and impartial as it was when he tried to scold Sebastian into submission. Rarely did his father show real anger when he chastised his son; most often he judged instead, expressing disappointment and frustration with what he saw as Sebastian’s conscious refusal to improve himself. 

Even here, Sebastian reads a fundamental lack of understanding as to what was causing his behavior. The letters hint at it - his loneliness, his desire to belong. And yet none of it helped, if it was never remarked upon. Sebastian takes it in with regret and resignation; he will never be able to explain to his father or make up for lost time with him, or with any of his family. It is a dull ache that sets itself behind his eyes and at the base of his throat, pressing in and making every breath heavy.

Among the entries, he eventually finds the evidence that Isabela spoke of, and it is the most painful of all. Notes in familiar handwriting spell out names and dates, and in his father’s journal are charts documenting the certainty of his fatherhood, though little of it appears to have come from the women themselves. As he continues to read, a horrible story comes forth, of a man unaware of the consequences of his actions, and of the steps his family had taken to ensure that he never learned the truth.

At first, the means mentioned are simple, relatively harmless - bribery, rumors to make one question a child’s paternity. Sebastian is again reminded of the power and potential for corruption within the Chantry and the Templars, but this time it is his family that wields that power, as he learns of a woman taken to the Circle, her mind and reputation destroyed, the truth of her son’s paternity declared the madness of a demon.

Sebastian has two sons and a daughter, children that his parents have known about longer than he has.

“Markus. Neriah. Albert.” He whispers their names to himself as if trying them out, and he supposes he is. His voice trembles. His hands tremble, letters shuddering where he holds them, suspended in mid-action as this new reality sinks in. 

Albert, a boy born to an Orlesian beauty, whose magic showed up early, and whose life was cut short by the fire in Starkhaven’s Circle. There is no indication that he was forced into the Circle, but Sebastian is doubtful. 

Neriah, a half-elven girl born in a brothel, perhaps still living in the city, but in a life that does not at all reflect one half of her heritage. His family could have offered her something safer and grander than anything in even the most hospitable of alienages.

Markus, a boy born to Juliana Archent, the quiet daughter of a well-respected merchant. Her life was ruined when she was sent to the Circle, declared mad and made Tranquil, all for a claim that those in power knew to be true. She died in the Circle fire as well, her son turned over to the Chantry and given a new identity--Markus Kindl--not at all connected to his affluent mother and her family.

Even as he says the names, the idea of them is still distant and hazy. These are not yet real people. He doesn’t know their faces, and the faces of their mothers are not all clearly remembered, a realization that embarrasses him as if they were standing before him now and he failed to recognize them. 

He lifts his head from where he is bowed over the book, glancing around the room. There is no one else there, no ghosts to look on his endeavor with disapproval, no memories made flesh to shame him for his past indiscretions. Neither are there any familiar faces, and as he tries to absorb and process all that he has learned, he longs to do so in the company of a trusted friend.

Sebastian gathers the book and letters under his arm, then leaves his room for the first time since the Templars arrived. After a moment’s hesitation, he sets off towards Hawke’s bedroom, both hoping that she will be awake and unsure what he will do once he’s there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	17. Telling Hawke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian seeks out Hawke to share his discoveries with her, and to try to decide where to go from there.

Sebastian keeps near the wall as he makes his way to Hawke’s room. The hallways are dark and quiet, an environment that he was more accustomed to in his youth, but now he feels more anxious than excited at the idea of sneaking through shadows to visit a bedroom. He’s not sure she’s there, but he also doesn’t want to run into anyone else on the way. After a day spent locked away in his room, there will be questions, and even if they are innocent and well-intentioned, he’s not ready to answer them yet. 

His father’s journal is twice as thick now for all the letters tucked between the pages, papers rustling as he tucks it underneath his arm. Sebastian knocks on the door and it moves under his knuckles, golden candlelight spilling out onto the floor at his feet, but he waits, not wanting to walk in uninvited. This is not like the inn; there is no expectation that he will be permitted.

“Who is it?” He hears her moving around in her room, the creak of the bed as she stands and walks towards the door followed by the ticking of Canut’s claws. For a moment he considers turning on his heel to go. He’d thought she’d still be awake, perhaps reading or sketching. He doesn’t want to disturb her with this. He needs to tell her, but perhaps it doesn’t have to be tonight. 

Except that now he’s knocked, and it would be worse to just walk away, and he will not be braver for waiting.

“It’s me,” he calls, trying to keep his voice low but wanting to be heard. “I can come back tomorrow if--”

The door swings open the rest of the way, and whatever else Sebastian was going to say sticks in his throat.

Hawke’s hair is in a single relaxed braid that falls down over her shoulder, with tiny wisps loose around her face. She is wearing a nightgown that falls just short of her knees, the undyed silk pale and softly shimmery under the longer, heavy knit robe that she tugs tighter around herself when she sees him standing in the doorway. The robe is too big for her, and her hands are all but hidden by the long sleeves. She pulls it closed across her chest and takes a step back, even as she smiles at him, and he hopes that the color on his cheeks isn’t too visible in the light coming from her room. Behind her Canut sits again, keeping Sebastian in his eye line

“I haven’t seen you all day, one of the servants said you weren’t feeling well.” Her eyes move over him while she talks as if looking for some sort of evidence of the claim, and he can feel each point that her gaze lands on. She glances down at the book, then flicks her eyes up to meet his gaze. “Is everything all right?”

The warmth and concern in her voice wash over him, pulling emotions to the surface that he’s been fighting against all day. He swallows hard against the lump in his throat and shakes his head, unable to summon so much as a word of explanation. Hawke hurries to step back again, motioning into the room.

“Come on, Sebastian, come inside.” 

His fear at the idea of telling her what he’s found returns, and he hesitates on the threshold, his free hand balling into a fist at his side. This can wait until tomorrow, when his chest isn’t as tight, when they can go somewhere to talk that isn’t her bedchambers, bathed in warm firelight and with her standing barefoot on the carpet. This should not have to be her burden at all, but he cannot bear it alone.

Hawke’s head falls to the side, another gesture to try to get him to move, and again he fails to respond. The muscles in his jaw jump, and his eyes go wide when she reaches out and takes his hand. Sebastian follows at the first touch of her skin to his. He’s not sure if she is overwarm from the fire in her room and the weight of her robe, or if he is cold from the fear that courses through him. 

Her room is spacious, if dimensioned somewhat narrowly and with a low roof. There is a window seat directly across from the door, and her bed is off to the right, deep on that side of the room. It’s a considerable four-post bed with a rich green velvet canopy, and he can see that the covers are thrown back, a book lying open and downturned by the pillows. The door is nearer to the left wall, dominated by the fireplace, with a sofa, two small armchairs, and a low table in front of it. 

She keeps hold of his hand as she pushes the door shut behind him. She has to step in close to do it, and he can smell the sweet, round scent of the oil that she sometimes uses in her hair, and feel the unexpected softness of her robe when she brushes against his arm. She stays near him, letting go of his hand to reach up and touch his cheek, turning his head to look at her. 

It would be so easy to melt into her touch, to turn his head to kiss the palm of her hand and tell her nothing about what he’s found. She offers comfort freely, with no idea what it is that troubles him, and his heart surges in his chest, affection blending with trepidation over what she will think when she learns this new truth. He can not allow himself to accept as willingly as she gives, however. He is not worthy of such kindness, not when he’s come to trouble her so late at night with such a thing as this news.

Sebastian holds her gaze and shifts the book in his grasp, holding it in front of his chest. “Hawke, I have three children. My parents knew, they knew, and it’s all here, all of it.”

A thousand thoughts cross his mind in the moment after he tells her. He tries to prepare for her to pull away, to recoil at the idea of his having these bastards. She could be disappointed, hurt, angry with him - all of it, he would understand, even if it would break his heart. He stands as still as he can, searching her face for some clue as to what she could think. He doesn’t want to meet her eyes, worried that she’ll take pity on him when she sees how every part of him wants her to stay close and help him with this. 

“Oh,” Hawke breathes out, her expression opening as she takes in his words. She lifts up onto her toes and wraps her arms around him, one hand on the back of his neck, her fingers in his hair. Her other hand rests on his back, and when she pulls him closer, he answers, sliding his arm around her waist, the book and his other arm trapped between them.

Sebastian bows his head to rest his forehead in the crook of her neck, letting her warmth and strength and acceptance surround him and soak into him, calming his trembling heart and racing mind. For a while they are still together, save the small motion of her fingers combing through his hair. It soothes him, and he fills his head with her scent and the sound of her breathing. The words are spoken now, out in the universe, and she did not walk away. The rest will be easier, and there is no longer any rush.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Her voice is little more than a whisper, but Sebastian hears no hesitancy there. She will take whatever answer he gives her, but it is up to him to answer.

He huffs out a breath that reflects back from her skin. “No,” he mumbles. “But I want you to know, so I will. If you’ll listen, I mean. If you want to know.”

Hawke draws a breath, and Sebastian waits, resting his hand on her back.

“I’m not sure if ‘want’ is the right word for it,” she replies, shifting so that her mouth is near his ear. “I can tell this is important, though, and I don’t want you to go through it alone.”

Her breath is warm on his skin and he can only hope that the gooseflesh that rises is subtle enough to go unnoticed. Sebastian allows himself one more moment in the embrace, then pulls away to look at her. He lets his hand fall to his side again, but hers linger, one on the side of his neck and the other on his arm where he’s still clutching the journal.

“You are too kind to me, Hawke, truly. I hope you know how much I appreciate it.” He wants to continue to explain, but she shakes her head and gives him another warm smile.

“This is how it’s supposed to work.” She brushes his hair back from his forehead. “It’s no more kindness than you deserve.”

Sebastian adjusts his fingers on the journal, willing them to relax the cramped hold he has on the book. A day spent reading page upon page of his own failings and shortcomings hasn’t left him in a state of mind where he can readily believe what she’s telling him, but neither does he argue against it. 

“Can we sit?” Sebastian nods towards the sofa and chairs by the fire, and Hawke nods, stepping away from him. She moves around the sofa to settle in one corner, giving Sebastian a quizzical look as he sits in the closest armchair. He needs the space if he is to explain this to her clearly, without being distracted. Hawke shifts so that she’s sitting facing him with her feet tucked up under her, almost all of her swallowed by the robe. What space Sebastian left empty on the couch is filled with Mabari. Canut watches Sebastian with curiosity, his eyebrows twitching.

He sets the book on the table but doesn’t open it. He knows the parts that he wants to tell her; the journal is only a prop, some tangible evidence of what he’s spent the day learning. There is also an irrational concern within him that it could disappear again if he lets it out of his sight, as if his knowledge is somehow tied to the book and the letters, and he will forget if they should be lost. 

“It’s here.” He nods towards the book. “Isabela broke into the Chantry and found records.” They exchange a knowing look before he continues. “She left them for me. She’s gone again, I’m afraid.”

Hawke nods at that, her mouth puckering for a moment as she processes this new information. The resentment that Sebastian feels towards Isabela for having to be the one to tell the others of her departure is overshadowed by his gratitude for her help in discovering the truth about his family, but only just. 

“When I realized what I was reading, I sent after more, and the Chantry was gracious enough to comply.” His voice goes dark at that, only just restraining his sarcasm.

“And that’s what you’ve been doing all day? Reading what they sent you?” She nods towards the book on the table.

“Yes. Finding out which of my so-called friends were selling secrets to my parents,” he hisses, scrubbing his hands through his hair. “Finding out how much they knew, how much they never told me.” His skin has been crawling all day, disgust souring his stomach to think that his parents knew the sorts of details that were included in the letters. Hawke’s eyes linger on the book, and he has to fight the urge to snatch it up from the table, to keep her from opening it and seeing for herself just what sort of man she followed to Starkhaven.

“Sebastian.” There is benign chastisement in her voice, and she stretches to set a hand on his hand. He knows the arguments that she would make: it was so long ago, his parents wanted to protect him, he is not the same man now. Knowing does not lessen his frustration, or make these new truths easier to accept and share with her.

“This doesn’t look like a Chantry book,” Hawke muses, and Sebastian tenses, prepared to stop her if she moves to pick it up. His hand balls into a loose fist under her touch, and she looks at him, a question in her eyes that she doesn’t ask out loud, but she takes her hand away and it disappears up into the sleeve of her robe as she folds her hands in her lap.

“This book is my father’s.” He leans forward and sets a hand on it. “It’s a journal, a ledger of payments to those who wanted to be paid, a calendar. There are other books as well, but this is the key, it’s all collected here.” It’s so damning that he almost can’t believe his father thought it prudent to write these things down. It’s possible that there were other things, letters that were burned and transactions never disclosed, but what he has before him is more than enough.

Hawke waits, and the way that she watches him is so compassionate that he wants to recoil from it, certain that the warmth in her eyes would turn to cold stone if she read the contents of the book before her. He sighs inwardly. Hawke’s trust in him is absolute; he must have the same trust in her, that she will continue to accept and care for him as she has so far, after everything else that he has done to her and shared with her.

“Some of the other books are from the Chantry. They keep registers of every mage that comes to the Circle, as well as records of births. Some of these were destroyed in the fire, I imagine, but some remained, and it was one of those that Isabela brought me. If it hadn’t been one of the Chantry’s own books, I don’t know that they’d have been as willing to give me the rest.”

Her brows knit together. “Why did the Chantry have it at all?”

Sebastian shrugs, trying not to show the rush of admiration that comes with her questions. These are things that it took him the better part of a day to come around to asking himself. “Safekeeping, I suppose. Who robs a Chantry?” He asks with a rueful laugh. “If I had to guess, I’d also say that my family was done with me. I was given to the Chantry”--He looks at her with raised eyebrows, and she nods understanding--“and so they gave these to the Chantry, as well as all my own journals from my youth.”

She smiles at that, sweet and wondering, and Sebastian tells himself that someday he will let her see them, at least the earliest ones. With mention of them, however, he finds that he is running out of aspects to bring up that are not the actual topic at hand.

He draws a breath and sits up straighter in the chair, moving to the edge of the cushions as he prepares to tell her. He clasps his hands in front of him to keep them from trembling. 

“The register that Isabela found had an entry for a boy named Albert Rémy. His mother is from Orlais, and she spent much of her time in the company of noble boys in her youth.” He keeps his voice even, but can’t stop himself from emphasizing when he mentions nobility. That he was one of those boys goes deliberately unspoken for his part, but he can see that Hawke understands. 

She nods for him to continue.

“Albert died when the Circle burned down. He was eleven years old.”

“Sebastian, I’m so sorry.” She gives the words no time to hang in the air between them before she wraps them in condolences.

“As am I,” he replies, “and yet. I never knew him. I knew his mother, briefly. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for her.” 

Even though he could, Sebastian shies from the idea of elaborating about the women in the book. There is no one for him now but Hawke, and he doesn’t want to cast any doubt on that by telling tales of former lovers. It would bring nothing to the conversation but pain for both of them.

Hawke is so patient. He can see in her eyes that she has questions, that her dagger-sharp mind is working, even in the silence that he lets stretch between them. She glances at the book, then back to his face. Perhaps some day he will have the courage to let her read everything written in those pages, and in the letters, but tonight he is a coward, and not ready to allow her such specific images of the man he used to be. He has told her more than he’s shared with many others, but to let her read the book would be a step further still. He trusts her implicitly with the information, but is still too ashamed of his past.

The fireplace crackles, and Sebastian clears his throat. “There is also a girl, a daughter. She lives in the alienage with her mother.”

Hawke’s eyebrows rise, but there is no judgment in her face. “An elf?”

Sebastian nods. “She worked at the brothel,” he mumbles, looking down at his hands. It might be easier to explain how it felt back then, the way that his overeager mind convinced him he wasn’t buying a body, but a connection to soul. He knows the truth of it now, but that makes his past choices seem that much more naive and desperate.

“And your third child?” She prompts. Perhaps she means to help him move on from sinking into thoughts of the girl’s mother, but she doesn’t know where she is leading him.

This story had been the hardest for him to understand, the one that left him reeling when he pieced it together in his bedroom. He hesitates to tell her now; she doesn’t know his family in any way other than what he’s told her, and while he has tried to understand that they did this to protect him, on the surface it is villainy.

“The boy’s mother was the daughter of a well-respected reputable merchant in the upper part of the city.” Sebastian presses his hands to his thighs and stands, his nerves ringing with energy as they try to stem the tide of emotions that rush through him. Hawke tips her head up, but doesn’t move to stand with him, though Canut does, coming to his side and pushing his snout into Sebastian’s hand as if to distract him. “I had no idea when we were together that she was an apostate; she hid it completely, her whole family did.”

He feels his voice rising, and he covers his mouth with his hand, taking a breath and swallowing down the anger that wells up. After all the time he spent in Kirkwall with Hawke, Anders, and the others, he can easily understand why a mage would shun the Circle and want to hide from it. That she would also want to hide that part of herself from the Prince that she was sleeping with is just as obvious, but somehow he takes that more personally; it hurts in a different way, as if he had any right to that information about her.

“She was reported to the Templars, and they collected her and took her to the Circle. There is no record of how she was discovered, but the dates show it as happening days after she was found to be with child.” 

His voice darkens at that. He will never know if someone he trusted betrayed this woman. It could have been a member of his family, and that secret will remain unknown forever. His own part in it is clear to him, and just as awful. If he hadn’t met her, she might have been able to keep hiding, and he failed her when he failed to notice her disappearance. He’d already moved on from her.

“Apparently she tried to tell them that she was carrying the Prince’s child, as a way to get them to release her, to be gentle with her.” He rubs a hand over his face and turns to look at Hawke, realizing that he’s pacing. He’s moved around the table to the far side, in front of the fireplace. He’s too close to it, and it’s uncomfortably warm. “They accused her of lying, and when she wouldn’t change her story, they deemed her to be in danger of possession. The Templars claimed that she was violent and hysterical, but the girl I knew was sweet and quiet. I don’t understand.” 

He takes a breath to collect his thoughts, casting his gaze around the room before settling on the end of the sofa opposite Hawke. He gives himself a moment of quiet as he sits and turns to look at her. “The Templars performed the Rite of Tranquility on her the day after her son was born. She was set to work as the First Enchanter’s assistant. The boy--her son--was given to the Chantry, and there’s no mention anywhere that she ever saw him or asked after him. She was also killed in the fire at the Circle.”

“And the boy?”

Sebastian shakes his head. “There’s nothing anywhere about him, only a first name, which might not even be real. If the Chantry knows more, they were careful not to send it along.”

Hawke snorts out a breath. “The Chantry knows.”

He can only nod. His bitterness at the Chantry’s role in his continues to unsettle him. It raises yet more questions that he will never have an answer to, about how much they knew in Kirkwall, if Elthina had any idea that there were children in Starkhaven. It also leaves him questioning the motives of the Chantry, that an organization he has trusted for so long and given so much of his life to could act against him in such a way. His trust in them is damaged, and it hurts to acknowledge it, to hear how quick Hawke is to side with him against them. There should not be a situation in which he and the Chantry are on opposing sides, and it leaves him uneasy.

“What did they call him?” She asks.

“Markus. And the girl is Neriah.”

With the words spoken, there is a hollowness inside him, as if he’s carried this knowledge for far longer than a day, and some of it he has, he supposes. It is not new to him that his parents were disappointed in his choices and wanted something else for him than the life he chose for himself. It’s easy to tell himself that the lengths they went to were to protect the Vael name, not to protect him. And he does feel the loss of Albert, and the loss of Markus’ mother, and possibly Markus as well, but it’s a vague sensation. He is loathe to compare his own children to some distant cousin or relation, but in truth he knows them no better, and learning of their deaths moves him as little. He prayed for them, and will continue to count them in his prayers, but the connection is too fresh for him to feel any deeper pain.

Sebastian and Hawke sit in silence, letting these revelations settle around them. His arm is stretched along the back of the sofa, and Hawke rests her own hand on his, the sleeve of the robe between them, except for her fingertips. He isn’t sure if he hoped for some more immediate reaction from her, but he is at once surprised, relieved, and frustrated by her quiet acceptance. To him, this should cause for her to cut all ties with him and walk away. Surely there are people more deserving of her kindness and patience than he is, and yet with each moment that passes, each slow drag of her fingertips on the skin of his hand, he is more and more grateful for her presence and the calm that she radiates. Just being near her stills the storm inside him.

“What do you want to do?” 

He turns to look at her from where his eyes fell onto the journal. She’s watching her hand as she traces patterns on his skin, but when he looks, she meets his gaze.

“I want to meet them.” It might be the most confident he’s felt since he met with Isabela, but of this, he is absolutely sure. “I want to find them, and if they want to meet me, then I want to meet them. I won’t force this on anyone; I have no right.”

“You’re their father,” she protests, and while he knows she’s right, there is more to it than that.

“They’ll be grown now, Hawke. These are not babies; the oldest would be twenty this year, older than I was when I fathered him. I had a son living with the Chantry in Starkhaven for two years before I was sent away, and I never knew.” He sighs and shakes his head. “They are both adults now, and Maker willing they’re turned out to be good people. I hope that they can find a place in their hearts and lives for me. I had a thought.” He hesitates. When the idea came to him it seemed mad, but also not unreasonable. “I thought I’d ask them if they’d like to live here, in the Keep. We have enough space, and then I could take care of them, spend time with--”

“It sounds like a wonderful idea.” She rushes to cut him off, saving him from rambling off all of the many justifications he’d thought of for why it would be a good thing to offer them. Her immediate approval bolsters him, and the smile he gives her is lightened with relief, even as her eyes as dark. “But you’re not worried about what they could demand of you when they find out?”

He shakes his head. “Whatever they might ask, it will never make up for what I owe them. I never thought that I’d have children of my own.” Sebastian looks away from her, off into a far corner of the room. “When I was young, they weren’t a thought, and by the time I might have considered starting a family, it was too late for me to do so. I’d already given my life to the Chantry.” He turns his hand under hers to catch her fingers with his own. “What about you? Did you see yourself with a family, children?”

At first she doesn’t answer, and he turns to look. She’s looking down into the fire, her brow furrowed. He suspects he’s asked something wrong, and wants to say something, opens his mouth to speak when she finally reacts.

“I did. In Lothering, when we were little. I guess it was expected. Bethany and I would talk about it sometimes. Not Carver, he didn’t want to think about babies, but even as I got older, I was just sure that that would be the future for us. The three of us still nearby, still together, all of us with families. Mother would have loved it, lots of grandchildren for her to spoil. As it was she doted on Canut when no one was looking.” She’s fighting to keep her voice light, and he can hear it, how it’s just on the edge of breaking. “I didn’t understand until I was older that I wouldn’t be able to have them, and by then it seemed like it was just as well. Then the Blight happened, and Kirkwall was nowhere to raise a family, not for me.”

Sebastian draws a sharp breath as he realizes what he’s asked. “Padi, forgive me. I didn’t mean to. I remember what you told me, I only meant--” He makes a frustrated sigh. “I don’t know what I meant. That was careless.”

When the subject of bastards first came up, Hawke told Sebastian of the infection she had as a child that left her unable to have children. It changed nothing of how he saw her or thought of her, and he cared for her no less, so it was easy--too easy, he sees now--to let that information fade in the background. That was a mistake, one he warns himself not to make again. 

He shifts closer to her on the sofa, still holding her hand, rubbing his thumb over the backs of her knuckles. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

She shakes her head. “It’s all right. It’s sad, but thinking about the memories, even memories of a future that never happened, it’s nice, in a way. We were happy when we imagined those things. They’re good memories. I just hadn’t thought about them in a while. And..” She shrugs. “People forget. About the other thing, you can’t see it, so it’s not something people remember. And what I said is still true: I’ve made my peace with it.”

She lifts their joined hands to bounce them lightly on the back of the couch. “But you, you have children now, and you’re going to meet them soon, Maker willing.”

Just like that, she’s flipped that switch inside her, closed off the softest parts of her again. He sighs, smiling across at her and nodding. He doesn’t know how to help her understand that she doesn’t need to hide herself from him.

“Apparently, yes, I do.” It feels wrong to talk about it in such airy tones, and yet it’s also something that he needs to get used to. It’s a part of his life now, and could become a bigger part. “Though whether or not they can be called children is some matter of debate. They’re old enough to make their own decisions.”

Hawke tilts her head. “You think they’ll refuse to see you?”

He shrugs. “I think if my father disappeared for my entire life and then reappeared, and was a Prince, that I would be suspicious and, perhaps, not entirely happy to see him. Me. The father.”

“You think they won’t like you.” This time it’s less of a question than it is a statement, Hawke reading his anxieties as if they were written on his forehead.

It’s not as simple as that, but he’s not sure how to explain the way his feelings tangle together in his chest. The longer they talk about it, the more real it becomes, and the more frightened he is of the idea of meeting these people, total strangers who have no idea how important they are to him. 

He opens his mouth to try to explain but finds he has no words, only the cracked start of a sentence that doesn’t get past the first puff of sound.

“C’mere.” Hawke tugs at his hand, and Sebastian relents, his earlier discomfort with being close to her now gone, driven away by their conversation and her acceptance of his news and the gentle, persistent touch of her hand on his. He leans towards her, intending to rest against her shoulder or her side, but she untucks her legs from underneath herself and Sebastian finds himself guided so that his head is pillowed on her lap.

The last vestiges of his fragile calm threaten to turn to panic at the intimacy of it, so much more than he’s used to, even with her. He tenses, preparing to move away, when she combs her fingers through his hair from his forehead to his nape. She repeats the action, over and over again, and with each pass of her fingers and her nails on his scalp, he finds his racing heart slowing and his thoughts returning, though they are thoroughly jumbled, as if a shelf tipped over in his mind when he settled on his side on the sofa.

“What right do I have to a place in these people’s lives?” He asks, turning just enough to look up at Hawke. “To ask them to do anything that has anything to do with me? I’ve not sent so much as a letter, and now this.”

Hawke’s hand that isn’t in Sebastian’s hair rests on his arm, and she gives him a gentle squeeze. “You are offering them a choice. The Sebastian I know would not force this on anyone. He would want the opportunity to make up for lost time, to give these children and their families everything that they have been missing in his absence.” 

Her affectionate strokes through his hair continue. The knit of her robe smells faintly of cedar and it’s soft against his cheek. The room is warm, and he is warmer where he rests on her, and his eyelids grow heavy even as he struggles to stay awake and alert.

“You have room enough in your heart and your home for these families, but it’s up to them to see that, and to accept it.” Her voice is gone low, and Sebastian suspects that she knows exactly what she’s doing to him, yet he can’t find it in his mind to fight against it. This is where he wants to be, and she wants him there.

"I don’t know this verse as well as you will,” she continues, ”but isn’t there some part of the chant that talks about ‘Maker of the World, forgive them. They have lived too long in shadow?’”

Sebastian’s sigh is heavy with contentment, and he doesn’t open his eyes when he replies. “Without Your Light to guide them. Be with Your children now, O Maker,” he mumbles.

The last thing Sebastian hears before he falls asleep is Hawke humming as if she’s made some sort of point. He thinks he understands, but what little focus he has left is lost to her touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	18. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian takes a walk in the city to try to clear his head after the revelation that Isabela brought him. Back at the Keep, nostalgia leads him to open a door he’s left closed for far too long.

Sebastian slips out of Hawke’s room before dawn, his face burning when he wakes up on the couch in front of a cold fireplace. He leaves her sleeping soundly in her bed and, after a short stop in his own room, leaves the Keep entirely. The air is cool when it hits his skin, and he is dressed in plain clothes and wrapped in a long cloak, his face half-hidden by the hood. To take more measures to hide his appearance would be extreme, and while he doesn’t want to be recognized, he also doesn’t want to draw attention to himself as a stranger in the city. While his return to Starkhaven went unnoticed, he is now Prince, and everyone knows it.

Starkhaven wakes up around him as he walks the streets, his gait slow and meandering. Here, he steps out of the way of a cart laden with fresh fruits and vegetables; there, he helps an old woman with a shutter that’s stuck closed, offering the strength of his arm so that she can let the early light and cool, fresh air into her home. It lightens the weight on his heart, to do something for someone else. Small, simple gestures were so much of what he’d done at the Chantry in Kirkwall. There, he came to realize the power of these gestures - a warm bowl of soup on a cold day, a door held open for a stranger to pass through, or carrying a parcel for someone who could not manage on their own. He had felt that the Maker worked through him then, spreading Light through these kindnesses and letting all His children know love.

_ “Who better serves the Maker: a brother of the faith, or a prince who can sway a whole city?”  _ It had been a rhetorical question when he’d posed it to Hawke in Kirkwall, and it comes back to him as he wanders, still with no clear answer. He finds peace in these small actions, in the directness of them. No one smiles up at him and calls him a good lad when he’s sitting on the throne in the Keep, or in a meeting with his advisers or the Chantry. He knows that he affects change in Starkhaven, and can only hope that his influence will help other cities in the Free Marches, but these things are intangible, and while he does not need to be thanked by every citizen, without their voices, it is difficult to know if his choices are the best ones for his people.

Sebastian’s feet set a course while his mind wanders, and he soon finds himself in most familiar surroundings, an area just outside the alienage where he spent many a night in his youth. It is not a well-loved part of the city - not so different from Kirkwall in that way, that the alienage shares walls with dilapidated human dwellings. There are homes with broken windows, or no glass panes at all, but there are also doorsteps with vibrant potted flowers and freshly painted window frames, homes that glow with love and pride despite their placement in the city. 

A girl sits on a stoop outside one of the less well-cared-for buildings, eating an apple and staring up the street with wide, dark eyes. The bustle of wagons can be heard as well as seen as they pass by the narrow street, little more than an alleyway. She pauses when she sees Sebastian looking at her, gasping and popping to her feet, blonde braids bouncing against her back as she runs away into the alienage before he can lift a hand or find his voice to tell her that he means her no harm. 

The street feels less welcoming after the encounter, and Sebastian moves on. 

Talking with Hawke and Bethany when he showed them the market started the first stirrings of this nostalgia within him, a longing to return to the past that finds him walking with one hand brushing the stones of the city wall as he and his brothers did when they were boys. He can reach much higher now, and though he knows that it would look odd, if not suspicious, he cannot help but he tempted to walk so that he can reach the lower stones, as if he can reconnect with Thomas and Bartholomew and find them there.

He buys a small bag of sweets from a stand in a small marketplace, only three or four covered stalls stocked with treats and some unfortunate-looking produce. The sweets themselves are excellent, buttery and tart with citrus flavors, leaving his fingers sticky with sugar, just as he remembers from so many years ago. He eats the entire bag as he walks, marvelling and disappointed to find that such a feat was easy in his childhood, but leaves him feeling vaguely ill when he first considers making his way back to the Keep. It’s all he’s eaten all day, he realizes.

The people in the streets change as the day turns to evening, with children disappearing back inside their homes and families closing shops and shutters for the day. The taverns and brothel will be open long into the night, however, and Sebastian has no desire to mingle with the crowds that come along with such places, even in anonymity. He passes through a cloud of perfume and the sourness in his stomach returns, leaving him hurrying away with his cloak over his face. 

The sun is low and starting to spread its fire on the horizon when he finally returns home. He sheds his cloak on the bannister of the stairway and makes his way slowly up the stairs. The day has filled his heart and mind with history, and he is in no mood to run into Granger, or almost anyone for that matter. Hawke is always a welcome sight, but so much of what they’ve shared recently has been dark and heavy. He would not place the burden of his grief on her shoulders as well, at least not today, if it can be avoided.

The familiar, dark wooden door sticks when he first tries to open it, and that in itself is almost enough to stop him. He sighs, leaning his forehead against smooth wood, one hand pressed to the door as well. He’s been running on instinct in many ways since he set foot in the city, not giving himself a moment to slow down and consider the circumstances, and this room has whispered to him every time he’s passed, but no more.

He stayed away during their funerals. It’s a choice he still regrets, still can’t be sure was the right one, but what better place to look for survivors? An assassin could have found him there all too easily, and if he was to be the last of his line, that made his survival that much more important. Whether he ascended to the throne or not, he was still his father’s son -- now his father’s  _ only  _ son.

He spent that day in silent contemplation in the Chantry and found out weeks later that Mother Elthina watched his room and gently ushered away anyone who would stir him. He had needed longer than one day, but that was all the time he’d been able to take. It would have been so easy, to allow one day to stretch to two, to four. He could still be on his knees by his bed, one candle lit for each of them, beseeching the Maker to lift them to His side and protect them as he had failed to. Standing in front of the door to his parents’ bedroom now, he shudders at the memory, remembers sweat at his hairline, running down his back. One candle is light, but so many together give heat as well. When they’d burned down he’d opened his window, exchanging the dense smoky air for the chill of the night, staying on his knees until he was shivering so badly that he bit his tongue twice, mumbling prayers in the darkness.

He sighs again, straightening and making a more resolute attempt at opening the door. It creaks, and he shoves hard with his shoulder, overpowering the work that time has put in to make sure the room stays sealed forever. The light from the hallway cuts the darkness, crisp edges illuminating a patch of carpet on the floor and the side of a bed.   


His shadow fills the room as he steps inside, leaving the door wide open behind him. It's late, and dark, and there are no candles lit in the empty room. The air is cooler than the rest of the Keep - the room has not been lived in for some time, he thinks, and the thought twists around his heart, tightening. He feels his pulse in his jaw, under his tongue, pushing at the back of his throat.   


Everything is exactly as he recalls it from when he was a boy, down to the location of the gold candle holders on the tables by the bed. He fumbles through the top drawer of his father's night table, finding the small box of matches that he kept there. The candle is stubborn, not wanting to be awakened after such a long sleep, but on the second match it sputters to life, burning off a layer of dust before the flame smoothes out around the wick.

He holds the matchbox in his hands, turning it slowly. It looks unfamiliar in his grip. His father's hands where larger than his own, but Sebastian's hands are softer, used to a life with books rather than swords, knives used for cooking more than for fighting. Sebastian's older brothers were both consummate warriors, adept with sword and shield. It was one more way he was unlike them, but they'd never made him feel lesser for it, instead working to include him in their training, talking to him while they sparred and he shot arrow after arrow at the practice targets.

They were warriors, and that had not been enough to save them.    


He returns the matches to their place and picks up the candle holder. It's not much light to see by, but he knows where he is, his mind filling in the blanks left by darkness. He walks slowly around the edge of the bed, stopping at the foot to look at the cold fireplace. He can't recall it ever not being lit, but it's been cleaned and emptied, soot stains the only mark that it was ever used. On the mantle he finds small keepsakes, a collection from both of his parents. The one that holds his gaze the longest is his oldest brother's first rattle, a hand-me-down that all the Vael boys used, silver with small bells inside. He can hear it in his mind, and reaches out to pick it up, only to reconsider a moment later. He's not sure that he likes how quiet it is, but that is not how he wants to break the silence.   


Sebastian crosses the room to the far side, setting the candle holder on a table piled high with books, one still open. The wall is set with high, narrow windows, and dust swirls around him as he tugs at the curtains, tying them back to let the light of the evening pool on the floor. It's cold light, different from the golden glow of the candle, or from the hallway, but it's also brighter.   


He turns away from the windows, returning to the table. The open book is a volume on the history of the Chantry, open to a page about Divine Innocente. He's read it himself, and he thinks of his grandfather as he brushes his fingers along the page. 

It would be easy for him to pretend that he was driven by nothing other than nostalgia, and it’s so clear in his mind, this desire to lie to himself. As his fingers move along the page, he is thinking of other books, a record of a life much less divine. Could his parents have kept something so secret so close to where he could find it? Their bedroom was a refuge, a space kept separate from his father’s office and his mother’s parlor. Nonetheless, he knows that the cabinet in the corner was always locked, that his mother was careful to tell all of them not to play near it. He could open it, key or not, and discover the secrets they’d keep so safely stored away. 

His eyes cut to the side, to the cabinet still hidden in shadows. It’s far more likely that he would find jewelry, family heirlooms, his parents’ prized mementos, but the longer he looks, the greater the swell of rage inside him, to think that they had him followed, collected reports and perhaps even interfered with his friends and lovers, all without telling him or asking him to explain. Not that he could have; he’d been as angry then as he is now. He crosses the room in brisk strides, only just stopping himself from setting his trembling hands on the dark wood and pulling the whole thing to the floor. 

Destroying the cabinet will not make his parents come running in.

The books he seeks will not be there. He is already in possession of them, in a trunk in his bedroom delivered by the Chantry. 

Reaching out, Sebastian runs his fingers over the wood, carved with the Starkhaven heraldry, clear to him even in the shadows that he failed to banish when he opened the curtains. Ruining something his parents held dear would do nothing to alleviate the weight on his chest, and so he turns away, taking in the room anew. With more light, it somehow seems less real, as if he’s stepped into a dream. Mirrors above the mantle and on the wall nearest the door catch the moonlight and reflect it, filled with motes of dust so that the air shimmers around him.   


When they were small, this was where mornings were spent, with the three of them piled into the bed with their parents, reading books, talking. Mother would comb her fingers through his hair until he was so sleepy and peaceful that he would nod off curled against her side, and Father would tell them tales of his latest travels, of the people he'd met in Rivain or Ferelden. He traveled for trade for the most part, something his second son was to take over in due time. He always had the best head for mathematics and bookkeeping, with just enough diplomacy to handle negotiations on his own. 

The edges of Sebastian’s grief worn smooth by time sharpen again as he moves around the room, surrounded by familiar sights. It is strange, the things that evoke a reaction. His eyes return to the mantle, recalling the pride he felt when he was first tall enough to reach the slab of marble on his own. His father smiled at him and ruffled his hair in a rare moment of warmth. He pushes a hand through his hair now but it’s not the same.

“I miss you.” It comes out through gritted teeth, anger mingling with the sorrow in his chest. They should not have been taken from this world as they were, by mercenaries on the orders of a woman bound to a demon. There aren’t even graves for them in the cities, no memorial for Sebastian to visit or for the people to remember them by. It was altogether wrong, and horribly unfair. His hands tremble, and his eyes sting with more than just dust, and he sucks in breath after breath but his chest is too tight to make good use of the air.

His father had candles made for one of his mother’s birthdays, her perfume mixed into the wax, and she’d been delighted, keeping them lit in the bedroom. Sebastian thought nothing of it when he picked up the closest candlestick, but as he’s walked, the scent of tart berries, spices and wood has wrapped around him, a ghost that drains his strength and drags him to his knees at the side of the bed. He turns, leaning on the bed, his head fallen back onto the covers as he gasps for breath, all the air in the room replaced by memory and sorrow as he breaks.

Unsatisfied with simple tears, his muscles cramp to form fists, tighten his throat and contort his face until it aches. His sobs are swallowed by the space of the room, at once violent barks, then silent, airless, desperate. A decade of pain pushed down, ignored, demands to make itself known, pushing up inside him from where he has swallowed it until he thinks he may throw up. His stomach convulses, sobs turning to coughs and his head pitches forward as he curls in on himself, hot tears changing track on his skin. His body doesn’t know what to do, has no decent outlet for everything that it is trying to purge, and feels as if it will rip itself apart in the attempt.

He presses the back of one shaking hand to his mouth, biting his knuckles until he feels pain, feels anything that breaks through the shock and confusion that press down on him. He is wholly unprepared for the magnitude of it, the rawness and the horror he is confronted with as he stares into the face of his loss. He believed that he had mourned, that he moved on, but the distance brought with it a measure of irreality that he is not afforded here. It surrounds him, has pursued him since he set foot in the city and tonight he is prey to it, unable to run or resist as it crushes him. 

The world moves, but Sebastian does not follow, fast in his grief. He has no idea how much time has passed when he returns to himself, his mind allowing for anything other than emotion. It hurts to breathe. His nose and throat are raw and the muscles in his jaw are still tense. He coughs, ragged breath after ragged breath, as his consciousness wrestles back control of his body. His eyes are sore, his stomach aches, and his head is pounding.

Beyond that, there is a lightness. Sebastian’s heart is lifted within his chest, this thing that he has carried for so long finally expelled, the last pieces of it following on his breath so that he would think that he could see them hanging in the air before him. Yet there is nothing, only the sensation of having crossed a threshold. It is only one step; there will be more, but this was the first. He is moving forward.

He sets his elbows on his knees and rests his forehead against his knuckles, whispering a prayer - for parents, brothers, their wives and children, family that he was never able to know, but whom he loves, and knows that they are at the Maker’s side. His mind tells him that it’s presumptuous to think that the Maker Himself would come and bear away his pain, and yet his heart will not let the idea go, and so he thanks Him for His kindness in his time of need as well.

New stiffness comes as he pushes to his feet, one hand on the bed for support. He pauses to straighten the covers, wanting to leave the room as he found it. Lifting his head to look towards the door, he sees a figure silhouetted in the light of the hallway.

“Hawke.”

He can barely see her features in the dark, the perfumed candle long since burned out, but he sees the movement when she smiles. 

“I didn’t want to startle you, but… I didn’t want you to be alone.”

He doesn’t ask how long she’s been there. He doesn’t think he wants to know, as he steps around the end of the bed and comes to face her. In her eyes he sees the same haunted expression that he is sure he would see in his own if he were to look. She knows his grief, the loss that he has carried since the day they met because it is her own as well.

Sebastian follows with an exhausted lack of resistance when she steps to him and pulls him close, his arms coming to rest heavily around her body and hers around his shoulders. He nestles his face in the crook of her neck, letting the scent of her fill his head and chase away the past. His cheek burns hot against her skin and his breath is still overwarm when he sighs.

“I couldn’t save them,” he whispers, tears starting anew, but softer this time. “Why did they send me away? I could have saved them.”

Hawke shushes him, gently, one hand at the nape of his neck, the other rubbing circles on his back as he clings to her.

“I should have come back. I could have saved them all. Maker--” His voice cracks, and he stops trying to speak. 

Again, he loses track of time, but this time there is a heartbeat, breaths that match his own, and security in her embrace. She cards her fingers through the hair on the back of his head, and they are both alive, and real, and here together. Her touch grounds him and pulls him back from his memories to the reality of the room and the world around him, and when he closes his eyes he all but sees the ghosts of his family retreat. 

He tried to do this for her in Kirkwall. The estate was full of people, all of them idle as Hawke stayed locked away in her room. It was understood that Anders should be the one to go to her, but Sebastian recalls how he stared at the door, imagined himself in Anders’ place. There were any number of good reasons for him to go to her - a man of the Chantry could offer counsel and comfort; a friend who also lost his family could listen as few others. At the same time they all felt like excuses, ways to give himself permission to be at her side, to pretend that he held that place in her life, and in the end he kept his distance, perhaps denying them both for his crime of simply wanting it too much.

“Does it ever stop feeling like this?” He whispers.

Hawke’s mother died in her arms while Sebastian stood by and watched, helpless. And yet she continues to fight, to wake up every morning and carry on. He needs to know that, now that this feeling has found him, it will not be this way forever.

“It changes,” she offers. “You don’t lose it, but it finds its place inside you, so that you don’t bleed every time you hit it.”

He yawns against her skin, cheeks flushing when he feels the vibration of a chuckle in her chest.

“Let’s get you to bed,” she whispers, taking a step away from him, sliding her hand down his arm to catch his and pull him gently towards the door.

His legs are slow to move, exhaustion rushing in to fill the gaps left when everything else has left him. 

“‘M not sure I can sleep,” he sighs, scrubbing at his face with his free hand.

“I know,” she replies. “But you can. I’m told I slept for two days straight.”

She shepherds him out of the bedroom, careful to pull the door closed behind them before leading him up the hall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! It really means a lot to me to see what people think of this story, and while I know I don't always keep up at replies, know that I read every comment and always want to respond. Sometimes I just need to find the words.
> 
> Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	19. Archery Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian has found archery helpful as a way to still his mind and heart. When Hawke joins him in the gardens, perhaps he find a way to show her and help her as well.

It’s late in the morning when Sebastian makes his way to the gardens at the back of the Keep. Perhaps nowhere else around the Keep is the loss of Starkhaven’s former ruler as visible as it is here. His family’s quarters were sealed and left untouched to act as somber memorials, but the gardens have not been so patient as to stay unchanged while being ignored. His mother’s rose bushes thrive without her careful pruning and attention, climbing the back wall of the Keep to paint it in deep green and soft whites, brilliant yellows. Grasses and snowdrops fill the spaces between the stones on the walkways, and the wide, low cherry trees have grown to meet overhead, creating a canopy that will bloom pink and blushing when the weather turns warmer. Ivy covers the outer walls, dotted with vibrant blue flowers that will wither and drop off as the sun warms them.

As much as he wants to be frustrated at the state of the gardens, Sebastian fails to find it in his heart, instead overcome with a sense of calm and peace, a lightness as he walks beneath the branches. Life continues. The trees and flowers do not mourn his family; they live as much as they can every day, for as long as possible. He will try to do the same.

Hawke was right; after she’d led him from his parents’ bedroom and put him to bed, he’d slept soundly without dreaming, and woken long past dawn feeling more refreshed than he had in weeks, unsure that he hadn’t done as she mentioned and slept away more than a day. Sebastian had avoided the grief that hounded his steps since he arrived in the city, but having faced it and allowed himself to pass through it, he finds that his breath comes easier and his gait is more even. The bitter taste of it is not gone forever, but perhaps it is a compassionate idea, and not wishful thinking, to tell himself that the darkest of his pain is now truly behind him.

The loss of his parents mingles with other thoughts in his head as he considers the coming days. After some searching and careful questioning, they’ve located where one of his children lives with her mother and he will be visiting tomorrow, prepared to offer them a new home, or if they do not want it, then whatever they would ask in reparations. Part of Sebastian is harsh and quick to remind him that these are no small children he will be meeting in the coming weeks, but he has no idea how to be a parent, and those he would turn to for advice are now lost to him, and they will never get to see him be a father. 

His old archery targets stand at the far end of a long, narrow stretch of grass, the colors of the circles somewhat faded and hidden behind tall plants. He disturbs a family of nesting birds behind one of them when he arrives to inspect them, muttering apologies as he picks up the target and moves it off to the side, nest and all. The rest of the targets are still sound, if a bit warped and in need of reinforcing, but they will do for today.

He swings his bow in front of him as he walks, the string hissing through the air and slicing at the highest parts of the grass. Morning fog is still burning off, dimming but not obstructing the line of targets when he reaches the walkway and turns back to look. The day will turn warmer, but not before the sun banishes the last cool dampness of the night.

Sebastian settles his weight with his feet shoulder-width apart. He keeps his eyes forward as he brings his arms straight out in front of him, both hands grasping the bow where he’s holding it flat in front of his body. His breathing is deep and even as he bends at the waist, beginning a practiced pattern of stretches that he flows through without thinking, his body used to the motions, welcoming them. By the time he’s finished, every part of him feels loose but awake and energized, as if his body is thanking him for the opportunity to be of real use, muscles put to work for something other than containing his anger and sorrow. The feeling of lightness remains, but he is also grounded now, his stance solid and even.

He hears the creak of the door to the garden as he picks up a handful of arrows, maneuvering them so that only one is set on the bow as he prepares to start. He doesn’t turn back to look, more interested in maintaining his focus and sinking deeper into his meditative state of mind.

“Hear now, Andraste, daughter of Brona, Spear-made of Alamarr, to valiant hearts sing.” His voice is little more than air with intent as he recites the verses, not singing but keeping the cadence as the words roll off his tongue. His breathing, his heartbeat, all of it falls into rhythm with the Chant as he speaks, the end of each verse punctuated with the dull thunk of an arrow buried into the soft wood of the target.

He makes it as far as the Maker appearing to Andraste before running out of arrows. When he bends to pull more out of the quiver lying on the walkway by his feet, he sees boots crossed at the ankles, legs sticking out where someone is sitting on the bench behind him. Canut is stretched out on the stones, head resting on his folded paws and gaze shifting to watch the birds in the trees nearby. Sebastian was already very much aware that he was being watched, but finds that it sets him at ease. He’s not used to company this early in his day here at the Keep; even less used to company that wants to talk with him while he trains. Rather than breaking his concentration, though, Hawke’s presence stills him, as does her voice when she finally speaks. 

“You’re out earlier than I expected. How did you sleep?”

He breathes in, waiting a heartbeat before firing.  _ Thunk. _ “Like a cat, to be honest. I don’t think I even heard you leave.”

She makes a soft sound of satisfaction, but she doesn’t say anything else in reply, and for a while they share the quiet morning. Sebastian goes back to the Chant, letting the words and the pattern of them anchor him as he looses arrow after arrow.

“You’re different here,” she observes, catching him off guard, just about to fire.

Sebastian glances back over his shoulder, catches her gaze trailing down the line of his back. “Am I? This is the same training I used to do at the Chantry in the mornings.” 

Hawke tilts her head and smiles when he meets her gaze. She uncrosses her ankles and sits up, resting the heels of her hands on the edge of the bench. She’s wearing soft green leggings under a long off-white tunic, and Sebastian is almost sure that the cloak she’s wrapped herself in is the same one that he left on the bannister after his walk through the city the day before.

“Well,” she continues, and Sebastian turns away to fire another arrow, listening as she explains. “I’ve never seen you like this before. I admit, I never came to the Chantry this early in the day, but you’re, I don’t know, relaxed.”

“I’m home.” The answer comes without thought, and his next shot goes wide, swirling a lingering wisp fog that hangs over the grass to bury itself in the far edge of the target. It wasn’t without thought, it was  _ thoughtless _ , he realizes when she hasn’t replied. He lowers his bow and starts to turn. “Hawke, I--”

He expects to see her sad, her gaze turned inward, thumb running over the knuckles of her hand in a telltale sign of distress. Instead, she’s smiling when he meets her eyes, and her head falls a little more to the side, her heavy braid slipping down off her shoulder.

“Do you really feel at home here?” Her smile widens as she asks, and relief rushes through him as he breathes out. He was certain that mention of home would upset her, knowing that she’s lost not one but two; it’s two more than a person should have to leave behind the way that she did.

Sebastian holds the question in his mind, considering before he answers. His earlier reply was automatic, and it would be understandable if it was born of familiar surroundings, the sights and sounds of the city he grew up in, the Keep and its grounds. Except it’s not that that prompted him, or at least not only that. 

After a moment he nods, slowly turning away from the targets. “I do. I must admit, I wasn’t sure I would when I first decided to come here.” He twists his hands around the wood of the bow as he recalls his trepidation, unsure if he would find any peace in Starkhaven, even with his friends as his side. “I knew it wouldn’t be the same. It couldn’t be; too much time has passed. I think I expected it to be more different than it is. Settling in has been easier than I expected.” He takes a step towards her and offers a shy smile. “In no small part thanks to you.”

Hawke’s eyes go so wide that she looks more surprised than flattered, but her cheeks glow pink and her smile holds until she turns her head to look off past him at the targets, and it falters when she shakes her head. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. I haven’t even fired an arrow since we left Kirkwall, so I don’t know what help I could’ve been.”

Sebastian sighs to hear her speak of herself that way. Hawke has been instrumental to so much of his happiness, both here and in Kirkwall, more than she seems to know or let herself believe, even now. 

“Admonishment from the Chantry and a surprise visit from the Seekers doesn’t seem like helping,” she continues, her voice controlled and flat. She blinks and swallows, all of it without seeing that he’s watching her, so that when she turns back, she’s smiling again, eyes overbright and shining as she takes a deep breath.

“I’m glad you’re settled in,” she chirps, vibrant but hollow, trying to shift the focus away from herself with a phrase. Sebastian’s heart aches for her when she tries to hide the sigh that follows.

This is what she does: presses down her sadness until it turns into a gem, happiness for others that she can give to them, sparkling and precious. Sebastian is not so proud that he can't admit he's fallen for it before, this sleight of hand that shows the fire of it to hide the flaws. It was part of how all of Kirkwall came to call her Champion, even as she mourned her brother, her sister lost to the Circle, her mother. It was one thing to kill the Arishok, but another to win the hearts of those she met, to leave them feeling that the Champion would forever remember their names and plights. Helping them did bring her some sort of happiness; he doesn’t doubt that, but it simply isn’t enough to smother the fundamental sadness that she carries in her heart.

In Starkhaven the first night, she'd let her sorrow out instead, spilling like lava to cool on the floor as a newborn stone, ugly and misshapen and dark, but honest. Her happiness that next morning was unsteady and translucent, but wholly hers, and since then Sebastian has watched, seen the jewels she offers as gifts without acknowledging their source. He doesn't know how to get her to make them for herself, to be happy for herself. To see that there are things she should be happy about, that she's allowed to appreciate. She has spent too much time hurting, and not nearly enough time healing. That was one of the things that he hoped for when he refused her request to act as Champion here, but seeing her sadness now, he wonders if he made the right decision. Her emotions seem closer to the surface here, but he doesn’t know if that’s a good sign.

“What about you?” He prompts, leaving the question as open as possible

“It’s strange,” she starts with a shaky, breathless sort of laugh. “I’m so settled that it’s unsettling. I don’t know what to do with myself here. I’ve spent so much time reading, sleeping, braiding my hair and wandering the halls that this feels more like a convalescent home than the palace of a Prince.” She sits back on the bench and throws her arms wide. “This is the first time I’ve been outside in days. I didn’t even know if I could be out here,” she adds, muttering. “I can see those targets from my window but I didn’t know if it’d be alright. Then I saw you wading through the grass and thought I’d come see.”

It’s Sebastian’s turn to sigh again. He’s been a lacking host and partner if she feels so restricted and restless. “I would argue that you needed time, Hawke. To sleep and read and to learn how to live a life that’s not the one you led in Kirkwall. And you’ve taken that time, and now maybe you’re ready for whatever your next step is going to be.”

Hawke eyes Sebastian’s bow and the targets behind him with eagerness, one brow raised as she looks from one to the other. Sebastian wants her to find balance for herself, but who is he to say that this can’t be a part of that peace, of who she is? He knows well enough how archery helped him rediscover himself at the Chantry and served as a building block for his own recovery, a first step on his long path out of darkness and addiction. It bothers him to think that she’s felt as if she couldn’t take up a bow whenever she wanted, but that doesn’t mean that he can’t encourage her now.

“How did you learn?” Sebastian asks, hefting the bow in one hand and holding it out to her. Her eyes light up, and she looks at him with her hand held out, waiting until he nods before snatching the bow out of his grasp.

“I took up archery when I realized that I wasn’t a mage like my father and Bethany.” Hawke casts a glance back over her shoulder, to where her sister’s room was, and still is, should she choose to live somewhere other than the Circle. “It was rare that they had any opportunity to cast real spells in safety, but I was fascinated watching them toss their magic at targets in the woods behind our house.” She runs her hands over the wood and leather wound around the grip. “I was elated when I got my first bow, even if Mother was less than pleased at the idea that her oldest wasn’t going to be the cross-stitching little lady she’d hoped for.”

She goes quiet at that, one finger running slowly along the length of the string. Sebastian waits, unsure if she should interrupt as she sinks into thought.

When she continues, it is as if the shadow was pushed away by the breeze, a cloud rolling off to reveal the sun again. “My bow let me do the same thing as them, or at least as close as I was able. I remember Bethany and I used to see who was faster to the target. I spent so much time working to try to beat her, but you can’t beat magic on speed.” She shakes her head, one corner of her mouth pulled into a wistful half-smile.

“I got really good with throwing knives, too, little ones. I used to keep a pair of them on my belt, but sooner or later you can’t be bothered to go get them out of wherever they’ve gotten stuck into, so.” The sentence trails off and she shrugs a shoulder. Sebastian knows where one of those knives was abandoned: in Kirkwall, in Anders' chest.

“What about daggers?” He asks. The topic is not without pitfalls, but he wants to move her away from lingering on the memory of her knives. If he recalls, then she does as well.

Hawke shakes her head in reply, scrunching up her nose. “Isabela makes them look so easy to use, but I never got the hang of it. I don’t have her boldness about them, or her grace. I’d just wind up slicing the inside of my arm if I tried to twirl around with them like she does.” She spins a finger in the air to emphasize her point. 

Sebastian nods along. He feels much the same, but there is something in her voice that tells him that there’s something more.

“I like the bow because it gives me a safe distance from my target,” he admits. “Less chance of getting hit myself. And it has an accuracy that you don’t get with a sword. You can stop someone without killing them.”

She flicks her gaze up at that, her attention captured by the idea. “I like the distance, too.” She furrows her brow as she searches for the word. “It’s impersonal.”

Sebastian continues to nod. Whatever was hanging in her voice settles with the word. Hawke’s fighting is so rarely personal. She fought in the service of others, as a mercenary, as the Champion of Kirkwall - even to help Sebastian track down the men who killed his family. Again Anders comes to mind; he can think of no blow that was more personal for her. 

They both shake their heads at the same time, each of them pulling themselves out of their thoughts. “And you, then?” She asks. “I know your bow was your grandfather’s. It’s beautiful, by the way.”

“Thank you. And yes, he taught me when I was little, and it was one of the few things that I kept up with through my adolescence.” He smiles to himself as he remembers. “I had a bow with me to the Chantry, one of the few possessions I managed to bring.”

Hawke leans forward, holding his bow out for him to take back. “I still have trouble believing that Elthina actually let you practice archery while you were a Brother. It always seemed like she was rather a pacifist, wasn’t she?”

“Mother Elthina was a smart woman, but I’m not sure she’d have known which end of the arrow to point at the target.” It startles him how easy it is for him to smile at the memory of her and to speak of her as passed. The pain that he looks for when he thinks of her is not gone completely, but it is softer, smoothed like a stone worn down by water and time. 

“I never shot an arrow at a person when I practiced there. No animals, either.” He tilts his head as he remembers, turning his bow over in his hands. “I did kill a bird once. It was the most impossible thing - it flew right in the path as I fired. There was nothing to be done, I pinned it to the target, poor thing.”

Hawke doesn’t say anything in reply, and he lifts his eyes from the bow to look at her. She’s resting her elbows on her knees and her eyes are sparkling, the rest of her face hidden by her hands. At first, she almost looks angry, her cheeks red and eyes wet at the corners, until a laugh bubbles up out of her, sharp and clear, and she leans back, holding her hand out as if to keep him from approaching.

“I’m sorry,” she sighs, still giggling. “I’m so-- Oh, Sebastian, I’m sorry, I know you probably think it’s terrible to laugh.” 

He’s already shaking his head, and he can feel how his cheeks burn from the width of his grin. It’s not even the story that’s done it, though he’s glad to have found someone else who thinks it’s as funny as he does. More than that, it’s her own laughter, her joy that pulls him to laugh with her. She’s beautiful like this, the morning sunlight catching in her hair, her limbs loose and her smile bright when she meets his gaze. Fondness wells up in his chest to warm him, and he steps closer to her, bow hanging loosely in one hand.

“If it’s terrible, then I was terrible back then as well. It was only a small thing, the bird, but it was a life, so we made a little pyre for it and sang while--” He chuckles, then tries again. “We sang for it, but I think there were two cats for every Sister that was there by the time we were finished.”

That sets them both off again, Sebastian with the heel of his hand pressed to his forehead and Hawke with a hand on her stomach. It feels good, to be able to share memories of something other than pain, to find joy with her and make her laugh. He would like to make her laugh more often.

“I wanted to let them have it, but one of the Sisters scolded me. Apparently that verse does  _ not  _ go ‘My hearth is yours, my bird is yours, my life is yours.’” He can barely manage to get the words out through his laughter, and for a few minutes they are both lost to it, unable to look at each other without starting anew, the simple quirk of an eyebrow or a twitch at the corner of a mouth enough to reduce them to cackling, or near-silent laughs that leave them with pink cheeks, gasping for breath. 

“I haven’t answered your question, have I?” Sebastian is panting slightly, working to calm himself. It’s rare for Hawke to mention Elthina, and he doesn’t want to leave the sentiment without a response.

“Apart from certain  _ incidents _ , she actually encouraged it,” he explains. “Focusing the body as a way of focusing the mind. When I was troubled, I would go out behind the Chantry and shoot at targets. It worked better for me than the sort of quiet, still meditation some of the Brothers and Sisters preferred.”

“ _ Meditation _ ?” Hawke looks him over. “This?”

Sebastian nods. “It’s not about the violence of it, quite the opposite. Mother Elthina would likely have preferred I do something else, and while I found stability in the Chant, archery was a connection to my grandfather, to my past, my family and the boy I was before I lost my way.” 

Sebastian would be content to fire at targets and shoot leaves off trees for the rest of his days. With Hawke he found a purpose to it beyond that - to defend and protect, just as he’d imagined when he was young. He has other means to do that now, broader strokes that can be taken, yet still from a distance. 

“I’ve never thought of it that way,” she muses. “When I have my bow in my hands, I’m on alert. I’m focused, but I don’t know that I’d say I’m calm.”

He hums and nods. “It’s about the state of mind more than about the actual activity. The repetition, the awareness of my body, it helps settle my thoughts, clears my head.” He shifts his weight. 

“Even after I’d lost my family, Elthina saw to it that I continued. She forced me, even when I didn’t want to. And it helped pull me out of my darkness in a way that I’m not sure I could have done on my own. It was a touchstone, unchanging and normal at a time when it felt like few things were.” The smile that pulls at the corners of his mouth is all wrong. These are sad memories, and yet there is some happiness in them as well. “It wasn’t long after I lost them that I met you, and then everything changed.”

He takes her hand to guide her to stand up from the bench. She’s graceful and hardly in need of assistance, but he’s found that these small acts of chivalry always seem to take her by surprise, leaving her with lowered eyes and a blush on her cheeks. She is unused to be treated like a lady, and Sebastian should count himself a poor gentleman and Prince if he doesn’t do everything he can to help her see that she deserves no less than the finest treatment, always.

“Here, come, I’ll show you.” He steps in close behind her with a hand near her waist to hold her in place until they’re almost flush against each other, her back to his chest, barely room to breath between them. For a moment neither of them move. Sebastian can feel his heartbeat and can only hope that she can’t feel it as well, too quick and too hard for such casual contact. Perhaps this was a poor idea, to try to show her this way, but when she relaxes and closes that last line of space between them to rest against his chest, his heart and mind go so light that he’s almost dizzy with it, and couldn’t step away if he tried.

“We’ll start with your stance.” His hand hovers just above her hip as he seeks a way to guide her that won’t leave him holding onto her. “I won’t lecture; I know you know how to shoot. I want you to think about how you stand, if you’re straining or leaning forward. You should feel loose and flexible.”

Hawke laughs low in her throat and shifts her hips, pushing against his hand at her side. “What sort of woman was Elthina, to give you  _ this  _ kind of advice about archery?” 

He chuckles, but it’s enough to break the spell between them, and he moves his hand away. “She gave me advice; I used it for archery,” he corrects her as he brings his arms around to lift the bow.

“Here, you too,” he prompts. “Take the bow.” 

She glances back over her shoulder at him with a skeptical squint, but does as he requests. The space for their arms where they draw the string back is cramped, leaving Hawke with her arm up at an angle, but where they’ve lifted the bow together, they’ve adjusted, each of them with a solid grip. Sebastian moves his finger to rest over hers, and sees her smile when he glances down at her.

“Is this all right?” He’s not sure how he would answer the question if she were to direct it back to him, but he asks her nonetheless. Her skin is warm under his fingers where the gloves don’t cover them, and the length of her back snugged up against him is proving more distracting than he anticipated when he started this exercise. 

For her part, Hawke looks up at him and grin. “More than all right, but I don't know how you expect me to concentrate like this.” 

She settles her weight again and makes a motion that would look like tossing her hair if it wasn’t hanging down her back. He can follow her sight line to the target and is relieved to see it, to know that at least one of them retains the confidence in their abilities to think that they could hit anything. 

“I like being in your arms,” she adds, softer and with warm sincerity that stops Sebastian’s breath in his throat. To have her properly in his arms--no bow, no arrow, no targets--would be a sweet sort of torture, a measure of how close he can allow himself to get to things he has foresworn for his own sake, and for his love of Andraste. It would be unfair to both of them for this growing affection between them to turn into a test of where vows can be bent without breaking. 

“Now, close your eyes and think about your breathing.” The advice is for himself as much as it is for her, and he hears the tremor in his voice when he speaks. “Nice, slow breaths in and out. Deep breaths, like you can feel the air moving through you, carrying your tension away when you exhale.” 

He’s a fine one to talk, fighting to keep his own breathing even as she shifts her weight and clears her throat. Her ribcage expands and he feels the movement against his shirt as she takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly through her mouth. 

“I like to try to time mine along with lines from the Chant to set a pace, but you could count, I suppose,” he offers as she draws another breath.

“If I recite Andraste’s Mabari, does that count?” 

He hears the curve of her smile in her voice, and sighs warmly, shaking his head. “You can use whatever helps you.” He adjusts his hands on hers. “Try to relax without releasing the arrow. Look for where you’re holding stress and don’t need to. Your jaw, your eyebrows, your knees and fingers. Do they need to be so tense?” He recites the list slowly, only barely able to see as he tests each place in turn. Her mouth falls open, and her grip on the bow adjusts. 

“‘An arrow can only be shot by pulling it backwards.” He works to keep his voice soft and even as he keeps talking. With her eyes closed, it’s up to him to aim. “So when life is dragging you back with difficulties, it means that it is going to launch you into something great. So just focus and keep aiming.’ That’s the advice that she gave me. I focused, but I didn’t know what I was aiming for. And then I was launched, straight into you.”

He lets the arrow fly, and she gasps when it launches out of both their grips. It misses the center, hitting a bit high and off to the left, but if it they’d been aiming at a body, it would still have been a solid hit.

Hawke clicks her tongue. “If you’d said something, I could’ve looked too, and then we would’ve been straight on.”

She slips her fingers out of his grasp only long enough to drop down and pick up a handful of arrows to give him to him. “Come on, let’s go again, but this time I get to aim.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! It really means a lot to me to see what people think of this story, and while I know I don't always keep up at replies, know that I read every comment and always want to respond. Sometimes I just need to find the words. 
> 
> Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)
> 
> Sebastian's remark about an arrow being drawn backwards is adapted from a quote from Paul Coelho's _The Way of the Bow_.


	20. The Alienage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian had hoped that his first visit to the alienage as Prince would be diplomatic, the start of a new relationship between Starkhaven and the elves who live there. Never did he imagine that it would be for such a purpose as this, finally meeting his past face to face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's beautiful art of Maresa is courtesy of [ambellinaleader on tumblr!](https://ambellinaleander.tumblr.com) I can't recommend her warmly enough. Please check her out if you're not already familiar with her work!

The alienage is larger than Kirkwall’s and more open as well. There is more sky above them, the vhenadahl spreading its branches high and wide above the central square, dappling the stone and the offerings below it with sun. One side is open to the river with wide, shallow steps leading down to the water. Shards of light are cast up onto walls and into the leaves of the tree, making the air seem to sparkle, and there are small, boxy vessels moored on either side of the stairs, some of them even tied to each other, extending the alienage’s living space out into the river. The scent of the water meets Sebastian as he makes his way down the pale stone stairway that leads to the alienage. Hawke is one step behind him with Canut on her heels, and as he sweeps his area with a look, he sees that Merrill and Fenris are already there, talking with an older elf, his hair pulled into a long salt and pepper braid that trails down his back.

Alienages are a grim reminder of a dark period in the Chantry’s history, and Sebastian would be fooling himself if he said that this wasn’t part of the reason he’d hesitated to visit, unsure if he would be welcomed as Prince given his connection to the Chantry. He would like to help the elves integrate back into the city, but only if they are interested. Their trust is important to him, even if it takes time to earn. He hopes that his purpose here today doesn’t hinder his plans for helping the elves in the future.

“Oh, Your Princeness! Sebastian, hello!” Merrill lights up when she sees them, calling to him and waving her arm over her head. The other elves stop and look, first at her and then at the unassuming man and the woman following him. He insisted that it was enough, just himself and Hawke with no guards or advisers, no uniforms of any kind. He can only imagine what such an entourage would look like to them, and so he’s chosen plain, dark trousers and a coat that comes to his knees with a high, straight collar. The only trappings that give away his noble status and wealth are the gold trim and buttons on his coat and belt, and perhaps the Fereldan war dog that trots behind him.

“Your Highness.” Fenris glances at Merrill as he speaks but does nothing else to correct her. For Sebastian’s part, the title is unimportant, not part of the reason he’s here. 

“This is Bralhen,” Merril continues, “the Hahren of the Starkhaven alienage. Bralhen, this is Prince Sebastian, and Hawke-- Padi Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall.” Merrill beams when she says the title, more proud of it than Sebastian suspects Hawke ever was. Hawke, for her part, nods a greeting, ducking her head to keep all assembled from seeing the blush that comes with mention of her former status.

Sebastian nods to the older elf, extending a hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally officially meet you. I apologize that I haven’t gotten here sooner, or invited you to the Keep. You were exceptionally kind to me at my coronation, and I want you to know I’ve not forgotten that.”

Bralhen’s nod is deeper, more of a bow, before he takes the offered hand. His face is all sharp angles, wide with a broad jawline and bright, dark eyes that give Sebastian all his attention. He smiles when Sebastian mentions the coronation. “It’s quite alright. As I understand it, you’ve not been back in the city long, all things considered, and an alienage is hardly the priority of a Prince.”

“Not at all, Ser,” Sebastian offers, finding that he is unsure of the correct manner of address. He notes that he will have to ask Merrill later, but Bralhen’s lack of reaction tells him that he’s at least not done something horribly wrong so far. “I hope to have good relations with the elves here, and with their elders. I can’t speak for how things have been, but I want us to be friends, and to see to it that the alienage and its people have what they need, and what they want.”

Bralhen listens intently, his expression giving no hint to his opinion of Sebastian’s declaration. He means it; having seen the condition of Kirkwall’s alienage, he promised himself that that would not be the case in Starkhaven, and like so many other things, he will work to make that happen. He has, however, been hesitant to visit the alienage, unsure if an official visit would be too much ceremony and business. Now that he’s here, he regrets having waited as long as he did and promises himself that it will not be so long between visits again.

“That is not why you’ve come today,” Bralhen replies, tilting his chin down to look up at Sebastian. The Hahren is old enough to recall Sebastian as he was in his youth, and the look he gives him is knowing, but still kind; Sebastian is here to do what he can, now that he knows that there is something that needs to be done. “I understand from your companions here that you seek a child and her mother.”

Fenris shifts his weight but doesn’t take his eyes off Sebastian, and he recalls their conversation from earlier. He is still mistrustful of Sebastian’s motives in this, and Sebastian has yet to think of a better way to reassure him than to simply do as he has intended, and meet the family. This is his responsibility as a person and a parent, and the girl’s theoretical place in a line of succession is unimportant in this decision. He understands all too well what it’s like to be judged differently depending on something one can control so little as when one is born.

“I do,” he tells Bralhen, “but perhaps you could show me around the alienage first, introduce me to some of the residents. For me to go to her directly might attract unwanted attention to the situation.”

The Hahren considers for a moment before nodding. “I understand. Please, this way.”

They make a slow circle around the vhenadahl, Bralhen making introductions to other elders, merchants, anyone willing to step forward and greet the Prince. He shakes hands, listens to grievances, graciously declines a family’s offer to join them for a meal. “Perhaps another time, soon, my friend. Thank you.” The man smiles, nodding as he backs away, and Sebastian’s voice catches in his throat

Not everyone he meets is so grateful for his visit, but even these elves he does his best to treat with respect. That he has only been Prince a short time is no excuse to offer those who seek help and answers; almost none of those who visited the Keep on the day he’d opened the doors were elves, and he does his best to show understanding in the face of their suspicion. Sebastian offers what he can, speaking of his plans but making few concrete promises. It is one thing to promise a mother a new blanket for her baby, another entirely to promise to abolish the alienage and integrate the elves into the city. The idea is not without merit, but it is not something that Sebastian is prepared to discuss today. Even as Bralhen leads him to the merchants’ stalls, he finds himself distracted, thinking more and more about Maresa and the child that he will meet soon.

The group has made half a circuit of the alienage, each of them finding someone of their own to talk to, or listen to. Merrill is surrounded by children, crouched down to their level, as wide-eyed and enthusiastic as any of them. Hawke sends Canut to meet the children as well, but she and Fenris stay by Sebastian’s side, Hawke’s hand brushing his as they walk, occasionally catching his fingers with her own for a moment before he’s forced to pull away to greet someone. Fenris looms at his opposite elbow, eying anyone who approaches with suspicion, though they seem to regard Fenris with no concern of their own.

A faint scent of smoke wafts over the alienage, and Sebastian glances around with growing alarm, eyes flitting to windows and rooftops until the Hahren sets a hand on his shoulder.

“You never made it as far as the alienage when you were a boy, Your Highness?” There’s warmth in his voice, but also amusement, and Sebastian’s face goes warm when he turns to look at him. “It’s all right. Your parents were rare visitors as well. The smoke is no concern. Look, there.”

Bralhen nods and looks past him, and Sebastian follows his gaze to the Minanter, then beyond. Smoke pours from a sizable huddle of wooden buildings on the far shore, and a few elves can be seen going in and out, gathering fish into baskets to bring back across the river on wide, flat boats. The area is surrounded by a sturdy fence that stretches to the shoreline on either side

“Some of the fish we catch ourselves in the water by the alienage,” Bralhen explains. “Some of it is brought to us by fishermen from the city. No one else smokes the fish like we do.” He smiles and glances at Sebastian out of the corner of his eye, pride written in his features. “We won’t tell anyone how we do it, and so far no one has killed us to try to find out, but we aren’t allowed to sell what we make. It all has to go back to the fisherman who pay poorly for the work we do, or human brokers, who then give us a fraction of what they make selling it here, in Orlais, Ferelden. You are looking at one of Starkhaven’s most beloved exports.”

Sebastian frowns. He recalls that even as close as Kirkwall, Starkhaven smoked fish was a delicacy he could rarely afford with his meager Chantry stipend. It was a taste of home when he could get it, but he’d never known what sort of work was behind it. “You can’t sell your own fish?” He asks, incredulous.

Bralhen shakes his head. “We can work for those who do, but we can not run our own businesses. When we ask, we’re told it’s illegal.” He leans on the last words, and Sebastian understands his meaning well. There is no one better placed than the Prince to change a law he doesn’t agree with.

Sebastian sighs, shaking his head as he watches the work carry on across the river. “I had no idea. My father never spoke of such things with me.”

Bralhen hums a little and nods, folding his hands behind his back where he stands shoulder to shoulder with Sebastian. “With all due respect, I suspect there are many things you don’t know, Your Highness. I would enjoy speaking with you about this in more detail some other time.”

“As would I. Bralhen, thank you for this,” Sebastian offers as he stops and turns to look at the Hahren. “I will never forget it, and I look forward to coming back to the alienage soon, but I wonder if we might perhaps go and see Maresa.”

Bralhen is quiet a moment, then nods. “Yes, of course. This way.”

He leads the three of them to a simple stone building with a sturdy wood and iron door that he shoulders open, stepping aside to allow them to come in. “Up the stairs, the door on the left.”

“Thank you,” Fenris replies. “Merrill and I were here once already. Would you like me to go with you, Your Highness?”

Sebastian would rather have Merrill with him, but he is not about to turn Fenris down, either. Something in the way he’d asked tells him that Fenris expects to be there, and he will not refuse him. He nods his assent. 

“Hahren, will you be coming with us?” 

Bralhen shakes his head. “I’ve spoken with Maresa, and I will speak with her again, but I believe this is best done between the two of you alone. Or, with as few as possible,” he adds, looking up at Fenris. “I will be outside.”

He leaves the three of them standing at the base of the stairs. Sebastian turns to Hawke, sees the question in her eyes. The Hahren suggested it would be best with few visitors. He wants her with him, by his side for this, but that is not reason enough to bring her and force her to see this part of his past. He is ashamed of the man he was before he left Starkhaven, and the knowledge of it washes over him, hot and uncomfortable, as he considers what he is going to face. 

The question of her accompanying him came to him the first time on the morning after he told her about his bastards. He fell asleep with his head resting in her lap and dreamed of light and water, and a feeling of wholeness. When he woke, he was alone in her room with a quilt tucked in around him and the lingering memory of the softness of her robe on his cheek. Already that day, when he’d sought out Merrill to start arranging to find Maresa, he’d wondered about Hawke. Would she want to be there? Would it be appropriate to bring her? What would the other women think, to see her with him? All of this mixed with Sebastian’s own feelings about it proved to be irreconcilable, and he’d put off any discussion or decision on it. Now, as he stands here, he is forced to choose. He has no doubt that her support is unwavering, but his ability to accept it and feel worthy of it is not.

Sebastian sighs, and he can feel the frailness of his smile when he turns to her. “Hawke, will you say farewell to the Hahren for me? I don’t know how long this will take, and I don’t want--”

Her eyes widen at the suggestion, and he sees she’s hurt her before she turns away, looking back out the door. “Yes, of course, Your Highness. Take all the time you need.”

She steps out into the sunshine, curling her fingers into her palm when Sebastian reaches after her hand. He wants to explain, but she’s already gone, headed towards the vhenedahl, voice raised in a cheerful greeting as she heads towards Merrill. Canut barks in greeting as she meets up with them, and the children squeal. 

Fenris makes a noise at the back of his throat, one that Sebastian can’t decipher, and right now he can’t be bothered to ask for clarification. Let him disapprove; none of this is Fenris’ problem.

The door swings shut behind them as Sebastian makes his way up the stairs. A small window at the top guides them to a landing with three doors. It’s dusty and plain, but well-maintained. Fenris moves past him to knock on the door to the left.

“Maresa? It’s Fenris. We, ahh, we met the other day.”

At first, there is no answer. Sebastian says a silent prayer to Andraste for guidance, and to help him find the strength to help this family, if the Maker wills it. After a moment that stretches out before him, the door opens a crack, and a girl’s face appears.

A girl with long pale hair so unlike her mother’s, but with dark eyes that Sebastian recognizes immediately. Her face is unmarked save for a sprinkling of freckles, with narrow eyes above high cheekbones and a thin, bird-like nose. She is much more her mother than she is Sebastian, and he is relieved to see it. He’s heard that elves with a human parent look more like the human, but he thinks it’s right, somehow, that she should resemble the one who raised her, not some absent father that she’s never met, save a chance encounter on a stoop outside the alienage some weeks ago that he doubts she would even recall.

She looks up at Fenris, then past him at Sebastian, then back to Fenris again. If she is at all impressed, it doesn’t show in her expression, a corner of her mouth pulled in and one eyebrow raised. “This him, then?” 

Fenris nods. “Prince Sebastian Vael of Starkhaven.”

The girl sighs. “All right, come in. Mother will be a moment, she’s got bread that needs to come out of the oven.”

The girl whirls away from them, two heavy braids swinging past her shoulders as she heads into the small apartment, leaving the door standing open behind her. Fenris follows, looking back to see that Sebastian joins him. He steps back to let Sebastian go first, closing the door behind both of them.

The apartment is warm and light despite the small size, and does smell of freshly baked bread. They enter in to a hallway with doors on either side, opening to a sitting room at the end. All throughout are wooden floors worn so smooth that they shine where they aren’t covered by colorful, hand-knotted rugs, or simple, functional furniture. The walls are decorated with hanging cloth and bundles of flowers hung upside down to dry. Sebastian goes in first, looking for the girl more than anything, though he has no idea what he’ll do when he finds her. There are things he ought to say, he thinks; she deserves an explanation. They both do, she and her mother, and he wants to give it to them. Their lives could have been so different if only he had known.

He finds her standing to one side in the sitting room, arms folded over her chest, one hip pushed out, staring as if she’s been waiting for them to catch up to her. “You can sit if you want. Or stand, makes no difference to me.” She looks Sebastian over, appraising him, and he can not help but feel that he is found wanting in her eyes. It’s fair, and he has nothing to say against it. She turns to Fenris, however, and her countenance lights up, and for a moment Sebastian sees her mother in her.

“Fenris, would you like tea?” She plays with the end of a braid, smiling and shifting her weight. “We’ve just made a new batch, with berries that Mother bought, it’s--”

“Neriah, we have  _ two  _ guests, do we not? You should offer tea to both of them.” Maresa steps into the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a cloth that hangs from her apron. Her dark hair is cut short and shot through with silver now, and there are lines by her eyes and around her mouth that Sebastian doesn’t recall. Her voice, however, is the same, low and dark and soft, even as she scolds her daughter.

Their daughter.

“Yes, Mama,” Neriah mutters, lowering her head before turning to Sebastian. “Would you like--” She pushes out a breath that’s not quite another sigh. “What do I call you? Your Highness? Father? Sebastian?”

He’s taken aback by the question, one of many things that he supposes he hasn’t considered before deciding to come here. “Well, I don’t know. I suppose you can call me what feels right to you, Neriah. Was it Neriah?” She nods. “It’s a lovely name. An old favorite of mine,” he adds, tilting his head a little as he looks past her at her mother, who only grins in response.

The compliment seems to have some effect on Neriah, even if it’s only a hint of a smile, a softening of her expression. “Would you like some tea, Your Highness?” She asks again, this time blushing a little. He’s gotten used to the title, and perhaps it was too much to hope for that she would take to calling him something else immediately. Neriah doesn’t know him as anything other than the Prince.

“Yes,” he replies, smiling through the vague disappointment that passes over him. “Thank you, that would be lovely.”

Neriah hurries past them, turning to fit through the doorway past her mother to disappear into the kitchen.

Maresa sighs and rolls her eyes affectionately. “Don’t let her get to you, Sebastian. She’s a proud girl, very independent. She hadn’t asked about her father in years, made peace with not knowing who you were. And now this. It’s a lot to take in at such a tender age.”

Maresa gestures to a heavy wooden table at the far end of the room, surrounded by mismatched chairs. Fenris pulls out two, one for Sebastian and one for himself, and waits until Sebastian is seated before settling beside him, his armor creaking as he lowers himself onto the chair. Maresa sits across from Sebastian, her thin, delicate hands folded on the tabletop, traces of flour stuck around her nails and in the creases of her knuckles. She studies him, and he wonders what he must look like in her eyes now. There is no grey in his hair yet - his father kept his dark hair all his life, as far as Sebastian recalls. He is also no longer the wild, fresh-faced boy that pulled her into his lap in the tavern, just as she is no longer the blushing maid who stayed by his side that night, and several after. The recollection comes with a pang of shame as he remembers how he’d been prepared to move on to the next conquest, only to find himself packed away in a carriage bound for Kirkwall.

“You look well, Sebastian.” She stops herself, eyes widening and her mouth falling open. “May-- May I call you that?”

Sebastian chuckles, nodding. “Yes, Maresa, please. I can’t ask you to call me anything else, it doesn’t feel right.” Fenris clears his throat demonstratively, but Sebastian is not about to force formality in this situation. “It’s good to see you. You look well.”

She laughs, one hand coming up to touch her hair by her ear. “I look old. I know I do,” she interrupts when he starts to protest, “but it’s all right. Life has been good to me. I’ve always had a roof over my head, food. I have Neriah.” Her voice lowers at the mention of her daughter. “I know she’s why you’re here. Fenris and that sweet girl--”

“Merrill,” Sebastian offers. “I can’t believe you named her Neriah.”

Maresa smiles, nodding. “Yes, Merrill. They explained a little. It’s unbelievable, to think that the Sebastian I knew is a Brother in the Chantry now. And Prince of Starkhaven! I don’t know which is stranger.”

Fenris chuckles, low enough that only Sebastian hears him. He gives Fenris an incredulous glance, but Fenris makes no reply, only shakes his head and looks away, past Sebastian to where Neriah is approaching with a tray laden with tea and small cakes.

“And I don’t know what else I could’ve named her,” Maresa continues, her voice turning soft and fond. “I knew whose she was. I was usually so careful otherwise. I couldn’t do anything about it, though, and then you were gone.” 

Maresa shrugs, and Sebastian feels another stab of shame. He wants to tell her that it was beyond his control, but as he looks at her, it feels like a hollow excuse. He chose to live his life as he did, chose to take the risks he did, and then chose to accept the consequences, to turn himself into a new man, someone better and freer than he’d been when he left Starkhaven. At the time, however, he had no idea what he was leaving behind. The bag of gold in Elthina’s hand could have changed Maresa’s life forever, if only Sebastian had taken it and come back. 

The tea tray rattles, and they all turn to look.

“Let me help.” Sebastian starts to rise to take the tray from her, but is stopped both by Fenris’ hand on his shoulder and Neriah’s swerving to move away from him, around behind her mother, before setting the tray down in the center of the table. She pulls out the chair opposite Fenris, setting out mismatched cups and pouring tea for each of them without a word.

“A lot has happened since the last time we saw each other,” Sebastian continues. “I understand if all this is strange for you, and I am grateful that you agreed to see me. I’m glad to see that you’re well, both of you, but I would like to help you, if I can. With more than just the tea,” he adds, nodding towards Neriah, who fails to see it, all her attention on Fenris. 

Sebastian takes a sip of the tea. It’s good, though still too hot to drink, but he needs the pause in order to collect his thoughts. It’s more difficult than he anticipated, seeing Maresa so calm and accepting of him, allowing them into her home. It would be unlike her to be angry, to blame him and shout and wail, but somehow it would make him feel better. She offers him forgiveness so easily when he wants so desperately to beg for it. 

“Is there someone in your life now, Sebastian?” Maresa asks, taking a cake from the tray breaking it into pieces on her saucer. Her look is knowing, with one brow arched almost to her hairline and a sharp smile on her thin lips.

Neriah gasps beside her. “Mother!”

“It’s all right, dear,” Maresa chuckles, patting her daughter’s hand. “What Sebastian and I had would never have lasted, even if he’d stayed in the city. Royal boys don’t marry whores, and they don’t marry elves.” She shakes her head as she looks at Sebastian, and he can only sigh and shrug, not wanting to admit out loud how right she is. “He was charming, bold, romantic, and completely uninterested in settling down. I think that’s changed, now.” Her gaze swings back to Sebastian and her eyes move over his face. “There is someone.” She smiles into her teacup. “Are you happy?”

Sebastian looks down at the steam rising from his tea. “Yes,” he replies, softly. “There is someone, and we’re-- she makes me very happy. Yes.”

“Good.” The silence grows around them as Maresa picks at her cake, Neriah staring shamelessly at Fenris from across the table.

Sebastian summons his courage, taking another sip of tea. “Maresa, I would like you and Neriah to come to the Keep. To move there, to live there. I’ve not been a part of your lives, and I know how sudden this is, but--”

“Mother, can we? Really?” Neriah’s chair screeches as she pushes back from the table, turning to face Maresa, grabbing at one of her hands. “Please, Mother.”

“You are free to choose as you will. I will not force this on you, but if you do come, you will have access to servants, chefs, luxuries.” Sebastian sighs, runs a hand through his hair. No matter how he tries to put it, it sounds boastful. “It’s the royal palace, and you will have whatever you want while you’re there. I have not taken care of you as I should have, and I want to rectify that now, if I may.”

Maresa pulls her hand out of her daughter’s grasp, picking up her tea and leveling her gaze at Sebastian. “Is Neriah the oldest?”

Sebastian smiles. He hasn’t thought about her sharp mind in years, but he’s glad to see it hasn’t dulled. “No, she isn’t. There’s a boy, two years older.”

“Two years?” She smirks over the lip of her teacup. “And I thought  _ we  _ were young. My goodness, Sebastian.” She’s quiet for a moment. “That means that she won’t be the heir.”

“No,” he replies, setting his cup down again.

“And you would have us live with you anyway?”

He nods. About this, he is absolutely certain. “If I learned anything growing up, it is that all children should be looked after and cared for, nurtured, regardless of when they were born. I’ve already missed so much time. I don’t expect you to decide today, I’m sure you need to discuss it among yourselves first.” Though if Neriah’s reaction is any indication, he will see them again soon. Even the admission that she is not the oldest has not dimmed her enthusiasm, though Sebastian imagines that that has more to do with Fenris than it does with him.

They make polite goodbyes to both mother and daughter, and again Sebastian notes that Neriah holds Fenris’ hand much longer than his own. He doesn’t mind; in a way, it’s already an insight into her life. Even as they make their way down the stairs and out into the late afternoon sunshine, he can hear her pleading with Maresa to let them go to the palace. All of the others have left, and the two of them make their way back to the palace on foot. Sebastian hoped that he Hawke would still be there so that he could make amends immediately, and he finds himself hurrying to return, wanting to set right what he now realizes was a mistake.

“You continue to surprise me, Your Highness,” Fenris says, glancing up at the vhenadahl as they pass. It’s the first full sentence he’s said since they went in to visit the family. Sebastian can only assume that Merrill had done most of the talking when they’d found Maresa and Neriah the first time. Having seen Neriah’s infatuation with him, he would have expected Fenris to shy away from the meeting, rather than volunteer.

“As long as that continues to be something good, Guard Captain,” Sebastian replies.

“Did you know, when we were to come here, that the girl would be younger than your son, the one who survived?” 

There is a weight in Fenris’ voice that Sebastian can’t immediately place. He nods as he speaks. “Maresa was… Well, with one night’s exception, she was my last before I was sent to the Chantry. So I knew there could be older children, but that hers would be the youngest.”

Fenris hums, and Sebastian sees him nod out of the corner of his eye. “You knew there was no way this girl would be your heir, but you offered her your home.”

“Yes,” Sebastian wastes no time answer. “She’s still my child, I see no reason to not offer her that. As long as there is room in the palace for them, they are welcome, along with their families.”

Fenris nods approvingly, and now Sebastian thinks he understands better why he’d wanted to be there today, to make sure that this girl would not be overlooked because of her age, or perhaps because of her heritage. Sebastian has never known Fenris to show any great solidarity with elves as Merrill does, but perhaps this is simpler than that, broader; perhaps Fenris wanted to see how Sebastian would react to someone who would otherwise be overlooked.

The rest of the trip back to the Keep is made in companionable silence, but Sebastian leaves Fenris as soon as they’ve arrived. He heads to Hawke’s room, but finds she isn’t there. When he crosses to the window, however, he sees her in the garden, firing arrows at targets.

He does his best to compose an apology as he makes his way downstairs and through the kitchen to the garden door. It stands open, and he comes outside just as she sends her last arrow sailing into the center of a target.

“I can collect those for you, if you’d like,” he calls to her. It’s a weak attempt to start the conversation, but it does get her attention. 

It’s subtle when she shakes her head, almost as if she’s disappointed in her accuracy with the bow rather than in him, but it’s clearer when she lowers her head and turns to face him, looking up at him where her chin is tipped down.

“Going there without you was a mistake.” He spreads his hands as he takes a step closer. “I made a poor decision based on my own embarrassment, and it was wrong. You’ve been nothing but supportive of me, and I don’t mean to push you away, I just--”

“It’s alright.” Hawke holds up a hand to stop him, the bow hanging loosely from her fingers at her side. “I had no right to be upset. It’s not my place to go along for you to meet your family.”

“You’re also my family, Hawke.”

The admission takes both of them by surprise, and for a moment they stand and stare, blinking at each other. Hawke’s mouth works silently, and Sebastian can feel the flush that blooms from his neck to his hairline, but he will not take it back. These children may have been created before he met her, but she’s been a part of his life for longer, and if wants to continue to have her in his life, he must let her see these darkest parts, and trust that she will accept him. He must trust her.

“You’re more a part of my life than any of them, and I don’t want to do this without you,” he sighs. “I missed you as soon as you turned to go. I’m stronger with you by my side, and I hope you can forgive me.”

Hawke is nodding and walking towards him before he’s even finished speaking. She sets her free hand on his chest and pops up onto her toes, leaning in to kiss his cheek. He sways, following after when she settles down onto her feet again.

“You are forgiven, Sebastian,” she replies, with the same reverent tone she’d used that day by the waterfall, but this time she’s smiling. “Can you forgive me my short temper about it? I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you.”

He grins. “There is nothing to forgive, as far as I’m concerned. Thank you. You’ll-- Will you accompany me next time, all the way?”

Hawke nods, and Sebastian breathes out, the knot in his chest finally loosening. He has much to learn about existing with another person like this, but already it feels better. He is not so naive as to think that he’ll never make another mistake, but perhaps forgiveness gets easier to ask for with time, and is more freely offered and more readily accepted. 

“Now,” she says, bouncing back a step. “Did you really mean it about collecting the arrows? If you’re here, then we could go again. Best of three?”

“With pleasure, my lady,” he responds, moving off towards the sun-warmed grass and the targets waiting at the far end of the garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! It really means a lot to me to see what people think of this story, and while I know I don't always keep up at replies, know that I read every comment and always want to respond. Sometimes I just need to find the words. 
> 
> Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	21. Family in the Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maresa and Neriah move into the Keep, giving Hawke the opportunity to meet them.

When Sebastian receives the letter, he anticipates a request for a carriage, or at least some notice that a wagon will be needed to get them to the Keep. What he does not imagine is Maresa and Neriah arriving a few days later on the steps outside the main doors. They are laden with bags, and each carries one handle of a sturdy wooden chest, but that is all that they bring with them when they step through the entrance of the Keep, leaving the warm midday sun behind them. 

“We left most of what we had for the family that was moving in after us,” Maresa explains as they make their way inside. Sebastian orders guards to take the chest from them, as well as their extra bags, though one bag Neriah insists on keeping herself, hugging it close to her body when a guard extends a hand to take it.

“Were they not your own things, your furniture and bedding?” Sebastian asks, looking the pair of them over. They’ve stopped inside the door to shed extra layers of clothes, folding them and setting them into the chest. Cloaks and gloves and shoes all find their way inside before they’re ready to make their way to their new rooms.

Maresa tilts her head from side to side, talking as she unlaces her boots. “Some of the things, I made. Two of the chairs I built, and one I repaired myself. I’m happy to leave them for those have more need of them than we do.” She glances at Sebastian out of the corner of her eye. “You  _ do  _ have chairs here in your palace, right?”

He blushes at that, huffing out a laugh and shaking his head. “Yes, of course. I just had no idea you’d made them.” Truth be told, there’s little that he knows about her. He might have told himself at the time that he was interested in her mind, and he recalls that she was a lively conversational partner, but that was not why he visited her in the evenings. The realization sinks like a stone from his throat to his stomach, and he regrets the statement, but she moves on before he can apologize or explain.

Maresa nods. “You know the work I did. I never wanted to ask anyone for anything, so that there was no one who could say I owed them a debt. What I couldn’t buy for myself, I made, or made due without.”

“Why do you have gates indoors?” Neriah asks, pausing to look at the ornate wrought iron gates that these days stand open, chained to the walls on either side of some of the archways in the Keep. Starkhaven’s heraldry is set into the iron in gold that’s grown dull from years of gathering dust.

“They were put here after what happened with my family,” Sebastian explains. Neriah is more than old enough to remember, but some part of him can’t stop thinking of her as a child, and so he avoids going in to detail. “My cousin explained it. Apparently, areas of the Keep where the original family--my parents and brothers and their families--lived were gated off, making their rooms into sealed chambers that weren’t opened. No one was permitted, which was just as well since no one much wanted to visit them. Goran said that he didn’t count himself as particularly superstitious, but if ever anywhere was to be haunted, it would be my brothers’ and parents’ bedchambers.”

“So there could be ghosts here?” She breathes, hurrying to catch up with them, wide eyes skimming the ceiling as they go, as if there could be spirits clinging to the stones above them.

“Well,” he muses, “I’ve been to my brothers’ rooms and my parents’ room so far, and I’ve met nothing there, so I think if there were ghosts, they followed the people who hurt my family when I sent them away.”

Even as he says it, it rings false in his mind. There was a time when Sebastian would not have considered himself superstitious either, before he started following Hawke into sewers and caves, seeing demons and shades firsthand. This, to say nothing of the spirit within a man who traveled with them, healed them, and loved Hawke. He’s not sure that he believes in ghosts as he does in demons, but he can understand where the idea of them comes from, the desperate longing to see a lost loved one again, thinking he hears his mother’s laugh or his brother calling his name, only to turn and find himself alone. He hopes that the ghosts of his family have followed the conspirators, but he is also sure that they remain in the Keep with him.

“What about your own room, Sebastian?” Maresa asks. She pulls her shawl tighter around her shoulders, watching him with an almost maternal look when he glances over at her.

The corners of his mouth pull down in something that’s not quite a frown. “Ah, if there are any rooms here with ghosts, it would be that one.” He looks at her, but her expression hasn’t changed, and so he sighs and tries again. “I’ve seen no reason to go there yet. I sleep in my brother Thomas’ room.”

Maresa knits her brows, and Sebastian looks away, uncomfortable in the face of her concern for him. He still thinks of the room he sleeps in as his brother’s, it’s true, but he sees no harm in preserving the memory of someone he loved, and someone he still misses. If there is a ghost in the room, then it is one that gives him comfort, and that he can speak with in the darkness.

Sebastian also has yet to open the door to his boyhood room. It’s at the far end of the same hall where his brothers slept, on the other side of the reading room where he and Hawke spend so much of their free time. The door calls to him sometimes when he passes, beckoning him to reopen all the old wounds that he will find on the other side. On occasion he’s told himself tales to ease his curiosity: his room has been emptied and cleaned and now houses extra bedding, or it was converted to a playroom for his nieces and nephews, or it was ransacked and abandoned, the perpetrators unable to find where he was and seeing no point in pursuing him. All of these remain simple speculation, but they each evoke their own set of emotions, and of the choices he’s given himself, he cannot decide if there is one that he prefers.

They turn a corner and are greeted by the sounds of quiet singing in a language that Sebastian doesn’t recognize. The voice is dark and low, soft but confident as it carries the melody out into the hallway. The singer is revealed when they find Merrill in the room Sebastian has chosen for Maresa. She’s arranging flowers and greens in a blue and white porcelain vase, singing as she turns the vase to look at it, inspecting her arrangement with an expert eye. 

“Merrill, it’s so good to see you.” Maresa sweeps into the room, opening her arms when Merrill stops her song and looks up at them. She lights up when she sees Maresa, and the two share a warm embrace. Sebastian is surprised and pleased to see how quickly the two have become friends. He recalls Merrill musing that mugging seemed a standard greeting in the alienage in Kirkwall. Seeing the two of them together, he hopes that Merrill’s time in the alienage here has been kinder to her. 

Neriah doesn’t join in the greeting, instead running from the doorway to leap onto the bed. The guards carrying the chest shuffle in last, setting it down by the foot of the bed. They bow to both Sebastian and Maresa before leaving, and Maresa sets a hand lightly to her collarbone, looking past them to Sebastian with a surprised expression. He is pleased to see that the guards are extending such a courtesy to her.

The linens and covers have been changed and the room has been aired since Sebastian chose it; even now the windows stand open to let in fresh afternoon air, more of Merrill’s efforts. Sebastian runs a hand back through his hair, fighting against embarrassment. She’s done nothing wrong, and harmed nothing by doing the work twice, but he is flustered by it nonetheless. “Merrill, you know I already had servants clean the room and get it set up for Maresa.”

“Oh, I know!” She chirps. “And they did a lovely job of it, but I wanted to do it myself. I wanted it to be me,” she continues. “On my first day in the alienage here, Maresa didn’t know who I was or who I’d come here with, but she came to my home with flowers and cookies and tea, and made me feel welcome in Starkhaven.” She’s slipped out of Maresa’s hug but keeps holding her hand, and she points in turn to the vase of flowers, and to the pot of tea and tray of cookies on a table near the fireplace. “Hawke, and you and the others, you came to visit me in Kirkwall, but none of the elves were ever like that.” She face falls as she remembers, but brightens when she turns to face Maresa. “I’m so glad you’re moving in here with Sebastian, but I am going to miss you in the alienage.” She holds up a hand. “I know, I’ll be able to visit whenever I like, yes, but it won’t be the same.”

“I hope we’ll see you often,” Maresa replies, smiling warmly at Merrill. “I didn’t recognize the song that you were singing.”

At first Merrill looks lost, her eyes wide as if she has no recollection of singing anything a moment ago. Then her expression settles and she smiles. “Yes, that, that’s the Song for Sylaise.” She gestures to the room around them. “The Dalish don’t really have blessings for new rooms or new homes or things like that, but Sylaise is the Hearth-Keeper, she looks after mothers and children, home-makers. So I thought it would be good, to ask her to watch over you now that you’re here.”

Maresa’s smile widens and she brings a hand up to cup Merrill’s cheek. Merrill leans into the touch, and Sebastian glances away from both of them, unable to avoid the sensation that he’s seeing something that’s not for him to watch. 

He looks down at the flowers, sighing inwardly as he starts to recognize them from his gardens, and from the gardens of the nobles nearest to the Keep. It’s too late to tell her not to, and he doubts it would do much good to explain, either. Sebastian pinches the bridge of his nose as he tries to recall if it was Varric or Aveline who intervened on behalf of the guard to make sure Merrill could pick flowers in peace. Either way, he will have to remember to take it up with Fenris at the first available opportunity. 

“So, there’s only one bed,” Neriah remarks. She’s sitting cross-legged in the center of the wide, low bed, her hands wrapped around her ankles. The covers are pale blue-grey with heavy knitted blankets piled at the foot of the bed, and a mound of pillows rises up behind her. “Is there another one to be set up or something? Where will you put it?”

Maresa moves to face her, and Merrill turns in a slow circle, as if only now coming to the same realization. The three of them look to Sebastian as a one, and he takes an involuntary step back. He has an answer for them, but the scrutiny is startling, as if they all expect he’s planned for mother and daughter to share one bed in the enormous Keep.

“Well,” Sebastian replies, swallowing and rubbing at the back of his neck with his hand. “Your bed is already set up, in your room.”

“ _ My _ room?” Neriah’s eyes narrow, and she tilts her chin down as she looks at him, more skepticism than excitement over the idea.

He nods as if hoping to transfer some enthusiasm to her. “Yes, your bedroom is through that door there.” He leans forward and points to a door in the far corner, on the same wall as the head of the bed where she’s sitting. “We thought it would be nice to give you rooms that connected, but there are--”

The words finally land, and she gasps loudly. “I have my own room! Mama, do I really get to sleep there? Is it really okay?” Neriah bounds off the bed, all but leaping to the door in a single stride. Her question to her mother is an afterthought, and her hope is written on her face, in wide eyes and an open, trembling grin. Sebastian’s heart swells with palpable relief to see her so happy. 

“Of course, my dear,” Maresa replies, her fingers loosely twined with Merrill’s as she takes a step forward. “This is a castle, I can’t imagine how many rooms they must have.” Neriah stays frozen, waiting for some signal that Maresa has failed to give. Neriah looks from Maresa to Sebastian and back. Maresa looks from her daughter to Sebastian, and all he can do is nod and wave his hand again in the direction of the door. “Go on, then,” Maresa calls to her. “Have a look!”

At that, Neriah squeals, the sound echoing in both rooms as she swings the door open and disappears into a room of her own. She returns a moment later, her head and shoulders in the doorway.

“All of this is my room? This bed is enormous, and there’s a vanity!”

They watch her run off again, and from her bedroom they are treated to various shouts and gasps as she discovers what Sebastian has left for her. He chuckles, moving around the table where the flowers are to stand closer to Maresa and Neriah.

“Some of the furniture is newer, but the vanity was my mother’s. She brought it with her from Rivain when she moved here after marrying my father.” He sighs, but not unhappily. The memory is a fond one, even if it mingles with darker thoughts as well. “A daughter was one of the things I failed to be, so she had no one to give these things to. I found them in a storage room, and thought that it would be good for Neriah to have them.”

Maresa’s head falls to the side, and she regards Sebastian with such fondness that he finds he has to look away, his cheeks burning as he turns on the spot, all of his attention going back to Merrill’s flowers. 

“You’re a good man, Sebastian,” Maresa replies. “Thank you for all this.”

“It’s a lovely gesture,” Merrill chimes in, and Sebastian smiles at their kind words, though he can’t help the ache that comes as well, that all this has to happen to late in all their lives.

“It is no less than my duty as her father,” he says, not looking up from where he’s examining a long, thin leaf. “I only wish that circumstances hadn’t made it so that she had to wait this long for it. That we both did, all of us--” He rushes to add to the statement, not wanting to exclude Maresa and all the work that she’s done to raise her daughter on her own. When his head snaps up and he meets her eyes, she only smiles and shakes her head. 

“Can’t we go see Neriah’s room?” Merrill is already walking to the open doorway, her and Maresa’s arms extended between them until Maresa starts to follow. Sebastian trails after both of them, stopping just inside the doorway. 

He’d been unsure what sort of things an almost-eighteen year old girl would like. Hawke and Bethany did their best to help, choosing fresh, light colors for the curtains on the windows and around the canopy of the bed, which is covered in a patchwork quilt in dozens of different shades of pink and purple and grey. The vanity stands on the wall that the room shares with the hallway, so that the mirror faces the bed and the windows. The wood is pale and sanded to impossible smoothness, with gilded accents and delicately painted flowers around the edge of the oval mirror. Sebastian feels a twinge of grief when he sees it, a sliver that shifts in his chest to sting anew, but it passes as he watches how much Neriah is enjoying her new surroundings.

Neriah sees them in the mirror and turns on the little plush stool to face them. She looks at them each in turn, coming to Sebastian last. “I think these two rooms are bigger than our whole apartment in the alienage. This is incredible.”

Sebastian smiles at her and offers a nod that’s almost a bow. “This is part of what I wanted to give you when I came there to ask. I take it you’re not disappointed?”

Her eyes go wide and she shakes her head. “Not at all! I knew it was a castle, but this is amazing.” She stops and looks down at her hands. Sebastian takes a step forward, worried that something has upset her, but she licks her lips and looks up at him again. “Thank you. Really, thank you for this.”

He remembers all too well how little gratitude he showed at her age. His was a life of privilege, and for all that he was the youngest son and something of a rebel, outcast within his family, there was little of material worth that he wanted for. Food, toys in his childhood and clothing as he’d grown, books, jewelry, novelties; nothing was out of his grasp. Her sincerity over something that Sebastian sees as simple and obvious--a home for his daughter and her mother--reminds him that he must never think that way again. Each day and the things it brings, these are gifts.

“Of course, Neriah. You’re most welcome.” He looks from her Merrill and Maresa in turn. “I thought that perhaps we could have some tea and I could show you the way to the kitchen. There’s more to the Keep than that, but one must start with what’s important,” he adds with a grin.

It takes some convincing to get Neriah to go along to the kitchen. She’s taken down her hair and is slowly working through it with an ornate silver comb, and only joins them when she is allowed to bring the comb and continue as they walk. Merrill follows along, arm in arm with Maresa, resting her head on her shoulder as they make their way downstairs. Maresa carries the teapot that Merrill brought with her to the bedroom. There’d been only water in it, apparently, and if they were to take tea in the kitchen, then there was no need for it to sit abandoned in her room.

The kitchen is bathed in golden afternoon light, and the sound of birdsong comes to them from the door open to the gardens outside. Hawke and her sister are sitting on high stools near one of the windows, and Sebastian can smell Hawke’s strong Antivan coffee as soon as he steps into the room. The others all go in first, leaving Sebastian to hold the door and come in last. 

Hawke is framed by sunlight, her hair glowing where it’s braided around her head in a crown, the rest of it twisted into a bun at the base of her neck. Her deep blue shirt is loose, almost too large to be meant for her, with the top lacing undone to reveal her collarbone and the chain of her necklace. She is also wearing sturdy leather leggings, but is barefoot, one knee pulled up to her chest where she’s tucked in to sit opposite her sister.

Hawke and Bethany hop down from their stools and move to meet the group as Sebastian closes the door behind him. Bethany sweeps a hand over her First Enchanter robes, and her smile is nervous as she nods to each of them.

Hawke’s smile is more confident, though she reserves her warmest looks for Merrill and Sebastian. “Hello! I’m so sorry, I completely lost track of time or I would’ve joined you all.” She rounds the corner of the large island in the middle of the kitchen and holds a hand out to Maresa. 

“Maresa, this is Padi Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, and her sister Bethany, First Enchanter at the Circle here in the city.” Sebastian rushes to make introductions, wanting to maintain some level of hospitality, at least at the start. “Hawke, Bethany, this is Maresa, and her daughter Neriah. They arrived today from the alienage. Neriah is my daughter.”

Everyone in the room is already aware of the circumstances regarding their coming to the Keep, but the words seem to ripple through the room nonetheless, as if they’d allowed themselves to forget.

Maresa takes Hawke’s hand in both of her own and smiles when she looks up at her. “You must be the one Sebastian told me about. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Hawke shoots a startled look at Sebastian, but Maresa continues before he has a chance to explain. “Only good things, my dear,” she offers as she pats Hawke’s upper arm with her hand before letting go. This time when Hawke looks at him, it’s with confusion and a blushing smile. “How did you know what time we were arriving today? We scarcely knew ourselves.”

“Oh, that was me,” Merrill fills in, lifting her hand in a little wave that’s equal parts embarrassed and pleased. “You told me, and I told them.” Hawke and Bethany nod, and Sebastian notes to himself that the information somehow failed to reach him, though it matters little now that they’re here.

Sebastian stands off to the side, watching as the women make their introductions and start to talk. He was afraid of what could happen when his past met those he shares his life with today: that he would be expected to be the same as he was, that these old connections would have no regard for his having moved on, that Hawke would be pushed to the side. He sees none of this with Maresa and Neriah, and it warms his heart. 

“I got a letter from Varric this morning.” Bethany gestures with the paper in her hand. “That’s what we were talking about, why we missed it when you arrived.” She looks down at the letter, eyes skimming it as she talks. “He and Aveline are doing what they can in Kirkwall. He’s been made Viscount as well.”

“Varric, running the city? Maker’s breath, he must hate it,” Sebastian sighs. Those who know Varric share a laugh at that, but even so, he is a good choice in Sebastian’s opinion. He is a capable businessman with an eye for potential that his brother never possessed, and he cares about Kirkwall, which may well be what the city needs most right now. The loss of Viscount Dumar, Knight-Commander Meredith and First Enchanter Orsino would have left the city rudderless, to say nothing of the people also losing their Champion. He glances to Hawke and sees her chewing at the corner of her lower lip as she listens to Bethany recount the rest of the contents of the letter. He wonders if perhaps she’s thinking the same, worrying about her former home.

Neriah buzzes with questions about Kirkwall, but Maresa has turned away from the conversation and is methodically opening and closing cupboard doors.

“What are you looking for?” Sebastian asks, stepping in closer to her and glancing past her at the open cupboard. Bags of flour and jars of sugar and oil stare back at him.

“Tea,” she replies, not pausing in her search. Sebastian has to lean back out of the way to avoid being clipped by the door when she closes it. “That was what we came here for, I thought I could get started.”

Sebastian moves to open the right door, only to have Hawke get there first. “It’s here,” she offers with a slight nod. “I had to hunt for it a bit when I first got here, too, but you’ll learn fast, I’m sure.”

He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. All of them are working more than any of them should be when he’s right there and can assist them. “You shouldn’t have to be looking for anything. Please, allow me.”

Maresa plucks a canister from the cabinet and opens it to inspect the contents. “Nonsense, Sebastian.” She looks up at him with pursed lips, but humor in her eyes. “This is supposed to be our home, isn’t it? It can’t be home if I don’t know where the tea is when I want some.”

He relents at that argument. She’s right, even if it is difficult for him to think of it that way. He’s lost so many opportunities to do things, not just for Maresa and Neriah, but for all of them. He’s glad to see them talking and sharing among themselves, and would gladly step back to let that happen, but he does also want this to be their home, which means allowing them freedom and independence within the walls. Hawke would balk at the idea of Sebastian rushing around to make tea for her, or her coffee.

“What was it you were drinking, Hawke?” Neriah drifts over to the windowsill where Hawke’s mug sits, not quite empty, but abandoned.

“Coffee,” Hawke replies. “It’s beans that are roasted in an oven and then ground. You mix it with boiling water and then strain it, sort of like tea, but it tastes nothing like tea. I had it for the first time…” She rolls her eyes up and away as she thinks. “After I moved, in Kirkwall. We were given some as a gift for our new home. My mother was particularly fond of it.”

Hawke stumbles in her explanation when her thoughts returns to Kirkwall, and to Leandra. She and Bethany exchange a glance around Neriah, a fleeting moment of shared recollection and comfort from one sister to the other, and Sebastian sees the corner of Bethany’s mouth pull up, a quick gesture that he’s come to recognize as a sign of affection from her to Hawke.

“Does Fenris drink coffee?” Neriah asks, picking up the mug to sniff it. She scowls and sets the mug down again, and Sebastian chuckles to himself. He had the same reaction the first time Hawke offered him some at the Amell Estate. These days he associates the scent of it with her, and while he’s in no hurry to start drinking it himself, he doesn’t mind the taste of it on her lips in the rare moments they find for themselves.

“I don’t know,” Hawke replies. “I would have to ask him, but he’s not here, he’s down at the guardhouse all day today. They’re planning some sort of big exercise or training or something, so he’ll be very busy for the next few days.”

Hawke looks to Sebastian with knit brows as if pleading for him to rescue her from her own explanation. Fenris is gone for the day, but the timing of his absence is based entirely on the fact that Neriah would be arriving at the Keep today. She’s made no secret of her crush on the captain of the city guard, and Fenris quickly decided that it would be better to be out of sight. That he’d gone along to the alienage was simply out of courtesy, as Neriah showed only faint interest in getting to know Sebastian when Merrill first approached the family, but now that they’ve moved in, he has no intention of allowing himself to be fawned over by a young girl.

A young girl who looks even younger as she pouts over her teacup, making faces at her own reflection in the polished handle of the comb. Her long flaxen hair spills over her shoulders in soft waves from where it was braided earlier, and her deep brown eyes go from the comb to her mother and back as she waits for her irritation to be noticed.

Maresa pours tea for everyone gathered around the island in the kitchen, a warm, sweet scent of mint filling the air. “Don’t give me that face, Neriah. We’ve talked about this.”

“I don’t even look like an elf, Mama! I could serve in the city guard.” Neriah’s grumbled reply makes Sebastian suspect that this is not the first time they’ve had this argument since Fenris appeared in the alienage. For his part he doesn’t mind the idea, but this is not a decision he has any right to interject his opinion into. Maresa knows best, and he would only muddy the waters.

“Can you fight?” Bethany leans in to look past Merrill and Maresa, and Neriah lifts her eyes to look back. She smiles, clearly pleased to be asked, and Bethany smiles back, though her expression appears more cautious,

“I can,” Neriah replies, nodding confidently. “Probably at least as well as you and your sister could when you first got to Kirkwall.”

The Hawke sisters exchange a glance, and Bethany’s eyebrows rise slowly up towards her hairline as she looks away, sipping her tea. 

“Well.” Hawke’s gaze fixes on her own coffee cup for a moment as she starts to speak, then she lifts her eyes to look at Neriah. “In Lothering I trained with targets, and learned to shoot birds out of the sky for Mother to cook. Then came the Blight, and I fought Darkspawn. And an ogre.”

“Oh, yes. An ogre,” Bethany repeats, her mouth hidden behind the rim of her cup as she nods.

“So, I think I could fight relatively well by the time I was hired as a mercenary in Kirkwall,” Hawke finishes with a shrug.

Neriah’s juvenile confidence deflates as she listens to Hawke. Sebastian is sympathetic; perceived invincibility was one of his greatest flaws in his youth, but he will not interrupt to stop Hawke from setting the record straight. “I can knock birds out of the air with rocks,” Neriah mumbles, spinning her teacup idly between her fingers on the countertop.

“That, you got from him,” Maresa replies, pointing a thumb in Sebastian’s direction. “I can’t hit the broad side of a building if I’m standing in front of it.”

The sentence goes through him like ice in his blood. It’s the first time he’s considered that there are people in this world who share some part of who he is. Of course, he understands where Neriah comes from, but to think about all that that implies for her, as well for him, is a revelation. Even if he missed her growing up, there are still things about herself that she will discover, and things about her that he has yet to see and learn of and understand. Yet at the same time the idea worries him. At her age, he was nothing but rebellion and bad decisions held together by the will of the Maker, it seemed. He would not want to see her follow the same path. 

“As long as that’s all she got from me,” he replies, rubbing at the back of his neck where heat is already spreading up into his hair and along his cheeks. 

“Oh, I daresay she got some of your rebellious streak as well,” Maresa chuckles. “I seem to recall you talking about throwing rocks off the city walls, trying to hit birds passing below.”

The memory itself is a faint one, and as he recalls it, it was his brothers that threw the rocks while he looked on and prayed for the birds, but that doesn’t mean that he didn’t tell some self-aggrandizing version of it to Maresa in the past. The idea turns his stomach, and he shakes his head, looking away.

Maresa sighs, turning to look at Hawke and Bethany. She leans in and glances at each of them in turn. “The jokes he used to make about how good his aim was--”

“Maresa. Please.” The request comes out sharper than he intends, but he can only shake his head when she whips her head around to look at him. “I would rather we not talk about that.”

She glances at Hawke again, then turns to look at Sebastian full on, resting her arm on the kitchen island. Again her gaze turns motherly, and he shifts his weight under her attention, uncomfortable with such softness and surety that she can see into the depths of him. “Sebastian,” she continues, soft but firm. “Your past is nothing for you to be ashamed of.”

His laugh is more of a sigh, and he shakes his head. “My past is almost everything that I am ashamed of. It’s only recently that things have come into my life that make me feel like I can be proud of myself.” Sebastian moves his gaze from Maresa to Hawke, only to see Hawke watching him. There is something stony in her gaze, a shadow that he doesn’t comprehend, but as speaks of her, it passes. She smiles and blushes, glancing away after a moment, and his own cheeks go warm. When he looks back to Maresa, she is also smiling at him, but it’s more knowing. At the alienage, she asked if there was someone in his life, if that person made him happy, and now she knows. Sebastian would have it no other way.

“It may surprise you to learn, but in my work you were not the only noble boy I spent time with.” Neriah groans, going quiet when Maresa shoots her a glance. “Some of them were kind--” She gestures towards Sebastian. “Some of them were cruel. They had no power at home and wanted to feel powerful somewhere else. None of them, not a one, would have come back the way that you did. That is also a part of your past, part of who you are.”

Sebastian opens his mouth only to close it again, struggling to find words to brush off the praise. She makes the act sound a good deal more gracious and noble than it felt when he did it. That his children were hidden from him and lived their lives without the comforts they should have had was wrong; Sebastian wanted to correct that for them and their families, even if it was late and their childhoods passed.

“It’s the right thing to do,” he replies. 

Maresa nods. “And you learned that long before you went to the Chantry. Don’t forget that.” 

She returns to the tea, chatting idly with Merrill and Neriah, who has been asking Hawke more questions about her life in Kirkwall, this time mostly based around what it was like to spend time with Fenris. Sebastian wants to believe Maresa; it would do his family credit to think that they brought him up to be the man who would seek out his bastards to give them shelter and protection, a home better than anything they’d find in the city. Yet it was that same family that spied on him, knew about his children long before he did and never told him. It would do his family credit, but he’s not sure it’s credit that he wants them to have. It was a choice they took from him, one that he can never be sure they would have approved of.

They are no longer here to offer their opinions, however. Sebastian steps past Merrill and Maresa to settle in at Hawke’s side by the corner of the island and looks around at each of them. His presence does nothing to interrupt the conversation: Bethany kisses Hawke on the cheek before she goes, leaving the letter on the countertop, and she offers to show Neriah the Circle if she’s interested. Merrill starts in with the history of magic among the Dalish, and Sebastian smiles to himself. His soul is at peace among these people, and his heart if filled. If there are ghosts in the Keep, then he can only hope that they look upon the scene and smile as well, and see that he is happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! It really means a lot to me to see what people think of this story, and while I know I don't always keep up at replies, know that I read every comment and always want to respond. Sometimes I just need to find the words. 
> 
> Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	22. Delphine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian is both bolstered and humbled after his trip to the alienage. Now it's time to meet another of the women from his past, and while he makes good on his promise to bring Hawke with him this time, it's a decision the two of them might wind up regretting nonetheless.

Sebastian knocks, then takes a step back, arms at his sides. Hawke stands beside him, watching him as he in turn watches the chipped paint on the house’s front door. The estate appears smaller than he recalls it from when he was younger, the garden shabbier, the windows unwashed and the exterior in need of some repair. It is an unfair reflection of the woman that he remembers, beautiful and vibrant and so much like himself in his youth. It was what drew them to each other, but what also ensured their affair was short-lived, neither of them in search of anything that would last more than a few nights. Unlike them, however, the house is meant to last ages, and the disrepair is a worrying sign.

Having Hawke with him is both a comfort and a torment. Visiting Maresa at the alienage was not easy, but the Delphine Rémy he recalls was no patient, soft-spoken maid, content in her life and at peace with the world. That these women are his former lovers shows sides of himself that he is not always proud of, and Delphine is not as flattering a reflection as Maresa. Had he been wiser, he would have brought Hawke from the start. She’s spent time with Maresa now, and with Neriah, and while they seem to get along well enough, he doubts the same will be able to be said of Hawke and Delphine.

There is the rasp of a lock being turned, and the door opens with a shudder, as if unaccustomed to being used. The gap is only big enough for the house’s occupant to see Hawke where she stands by Sebastian’s side, and she leans a little to make sure that she and whoever is inside can see each other clearly.

“Who are you, then,” comes a familiar voice, and Sebastian sighs inwardly. “Coming and disturbing a lady in the middle of the day? Dressed like a ruffian, you are. Shoo before I call the city guard on you for trying to rob me.”

A lace-gloved hand appears through the narrow opening, fingers poking at Hawke’s chest when she is dismissed. Hawke’s gaze flicks down to her clothes, then to the hand, and she stares at the woman behind the door with raised brows, indignation sparking in her eyes when she turns to look at Sebastian. He can only shake his head and spread his hands in quiet apology. Hawke sighs and steps away without turning her back on the door.

“I’m friends with the Captain of the City Guard, madam.” Hawke folds her hands behind her back and lifts her chin. “I don’t think you’d--”

Sebastian clears his throat and she goes quiet, pursing her lips. Hawke can defend her own honor as well as anyone he knows, but if this misunderstanding can be cleared up, it will hopefully not be necessary. “You are addressing the Champion of Kirkwall, mistress.” He glances at Hawke and he nods, her expression and posture relaxing. “It would be a good idea to show Lady Hawke the proper respect, as me as well, Madame Rémy.”

He leans on the name when he says it in the hopes it will spark some recognition, as he is no longer convinced that the house holds the resident he seeks. Delphine could be abrasive, but never like this, and the embarrassment that burns his cheeks is twofold; he’s not sure whether he wants this woman to be her or not. That it is an Orlesian accent could be playing tricks on his mind, and he needs to be sure.

“Who is this now?” The voice asks, curling with genuine curiosity, the earlier hostility fading.

The door opens wider, and when Sebastian steps out of the way, he finds himself face to face with a ghost. Everything about her is paler - there is less luster in her blonde hair now, her skin more lined, less bright and inviting than it once was, but her dark eyes are still sharp. In the back of his mind, he knows that the same can likely be said of himself, but his years of simple Chantry life have perhaps allowed him to retain more of his physical youth. The life he led in Starkhaven would eventually have taken a toll on his eyes and hair and skin; he’s seen it in Kirkwall, men with red noses and wet eyes that stumbled out of the Hanged Man and into the street. 

Her accent has faded like the lace of her gloves, a sign of former fortune now lost, and he is sad to think that she never did return to Val Royeaux as she’d always dreamed of. Perhaps that would have saved her from whatever hardships she’s faced in the years since.

The woman squints up at him, her lips pursed to a white line, and he takes a step away, out into the sunshine. 

“Hello, Delphine,” he offers, one arm across his back as he bends in a slight bow. Delphine - and seeing her, Sebastian is sure it is her - curtsies and offers a hand for him to kiss. His eyes cut to the side where Hawke is watching with her arms folded across her chest. Their gazes meet, and he furrows his brow in apology. Hawke rolls her eyes but says nothing as he brushes his lips to Delphine’s knuckles. She gasps, an unexpectedly girlish sound, and Sebastian smiles to hear it, reminded of how much she always appreciated these small formalities.

“ _ Basti _ ?” Delphine squeals. “My Sebastian, is it really you? I heard that you were in the palace, but I thought that it could not be. They said you were dead.” Her hands land on him without settling, fluttering over his chest, neck, arms, as if she could find some hole to prove that he’s not real, the little touches surrounding him in a cloud of cloyingly sweet perfume. The effect is disconcerting, and he catches her hands in his, lowering them before letting go, noting that her hands move to follow his again before falling to her sides.

“I’m so tired of that rumor,” he sighs, and Hawke makes a sound of agreement where she stands a few steps away. One more thing that he will never be able to discuss with his parents. “No, I’m not dead. I’m here, very much alive, and glad to see you are as well.”

Delphine straightens, running a hand through her hair and smiling demurely. “It has not been so easy all these years you’ve been away, of course. Had I known you would be coming back to me, I would have prepared!” 

She smooths her hands along the lines of her body as if to demonstrate, and Sebastian sighs again. Her boldness seemed intoxicating when he was younger, but now he only wants to get through an introduction and what he expects will be a painful conversation. Her obvious flirting with Hawke so close by is unwelcome, but he can’t bring himself to correct her. It’s harmless and it will lead nowhere, and he can only hope that Hawke knows that. 

“I was hoping we could talk, Delphine.” Sebastian looks from her to Hawke and back, wanting to make sure to include Hawke in every step of this. “You and I, and my Lady Hawke as well.”

Delphine looks Hawke over as if appraising her, with narrowed eyes and pressed lips, and her expression sours even further when her gaze turns to Sebastian. “She is very pretty for a servant. Would you not prefer a man to open your doors?”

Hawke bristles beside him, and Sebastian glances at her, offering another silent apology for Delphine’s assumption. “As I said when you greeted her so coarsely, Lady Hawke is the Champion of Kirkwall. She is no one’s servant.”

“What is she, then, that you brought you with you to see me?” Delphine purses her lips and shoots out her hip, and the look she gives Hawke borders on a glare. 

“What I am is someone who is here with Prince Sebastian because he wants to talk with you. He asked me to accompany him.” Hawke is fighting to keep her tone level as she explains, and when Sebastian looks at her again, her smile is stiff and fades quickly. “It would be good of you to listen to him, madam.”

For a moment the two women stare at each other, Delphine with raised brows, as if surprised that Hawke is speaking to her. Hawke, to her credit, lets her arms hang at her sides and waits, expectantly. Sebastian has seen it before, and a little thrill of pride goes through him, even if he is frustrated to see one of her displays of infinite patience brought out here, today.

“Since I’ve come back,” Sebastian fills in, doing what he can to break the tension between all of them, “there are some things that I’ve learned about my past, and they include you, Delphine. I think it’s best we do this inside.”

It’s the first sign of hesitation that she’s shown since they arrived, the moment that passes before she nods and steps back to let them in. Sebastian glances at Hawke, who gives a tiny, unknowing shake of her head before nodding for Sebastian to go. He moves out of the way and nods for Hawke to go in first, setting his hand at the small of her back as she passes as a sign of reassurance. It’s important to him that Hawke understand that while Delphine is his past, she is his present and, if she wants to be, his future as well. There is nothing that can happen in this house that will change that, and while they’d discussed just that on the walk to the mansion, he can imagine how easily forgotten such statements can be when there are heightened tempers. To try to remind her by saying it now would not improve the situation, and Sebastian can only hope that his touch conveys what he cannot tell her. 

“Of course, come in, come in,” Delphine calls as she walks them into the front hall, then stops and turns. “Unless you would like to take me to a café? There is one just up the road, do you remember it? Still there, still with the same cakes, but the owner, she has not aged as gracefully as I have.” She flutters her eyelashes and smiles coyly, but the backhanded comment and aggressive advances leave him cold, and it’s even worse than being numb to it, as he recalls how well these tactics used to work on him.

Sebastian does not remember the café, and Delphine’s harsh reference to the owner brings nothing to mind, so he shakes his head and gestures up the hall. The outcome would be that he would pay for her, and while he has the means and cannot be certain that she does as well, he is uninterested in spending money in order to spend this time with her. “I am sure the hospitality of your home will be more than enough,” he replies with a polite smile.

Some of the pride falls from her own smile, flaking away like paint that’s dried and chipped, but she nods and turns away again. She leads them to a front sitting room decorated with faded pastels, furniture and curtains all in fabrics that are soft but worn, formerly luxurious but clearly old. The chair creaks from lack of use when Sebastian settles in to it, and Delphine moves her chair to sit near him, rather than across the small, round table she shows them to. Hawke steps around behind him and settles into a chair on his other side. Delphine shoots her a look, but doesn’t comment when Hawke’s arm brushes against Sebastian’s. The contact soothes his somewhat rattled nerves, serving as an answer to his hand on her back on the way inside. She is still with him in this, and for that he is grateful. With her beside him, there is nothing he cannot do. 

He rests his arm on the table, uncomfortable now and unsure where to start. This time will not be as straightforward, and he can’t help but notice something between the two women in the way that they look at each other. He can not expect Delphine to know anything of the relationship that he has with Hawke, but her straightforwardness is not as alluring at it once was; Sebastian is no longer flattered by the idea that women might fight over his attention. He doesn’t want Hawke to think that there is any chance that she would lose to Delphine, or any other woman.

The chair squeaks again as he shifts his weight on it, looking at Delphine. “It’s been a long time. How have you been?”

“Terrible.” The answer is immediate, and followed by a heavy sigh. Delphine tilts her head to the side and looks at Sebastian with sorrow, her dark eyes suddenly wet with tears. “This city is not kind to a woman on her own. My father passed away some years ago.” She looks down at the table and Sebastian watches as she taps her fingers to the wood one after the other. “Four years ago, it was. He always took care of me when he could, but the import business was not what it once was, and so he sent less and less. He said in his letters that I should look for work, but I can not get up at dawn to sell fish, or spend my days baking bread. Me?” She gestures to herself as if the reasoning should obvious. Sebastian is not unsympathetic to such ideas; he would also have balked at the thought when he was young, but his years in the Chantry showed him the value of labor. “When he passed, this house came to me, and some money as well, but it is not enough to maintain the lifestyle to which I am accustomed.”

Hawke clears her throat at that, and Sebastian fights the urge to glance at her. Entitlement can be insidious, and from the looks of it, Delphine has no one in her life to show her the error of her ways. He remembers that her complaints about her father were frequent even in their youth, when her allowances were spent on drink and dresses and shoes, until she needed to ask Sebastian to take her to the market for food, trips that often ended at restaurants instead. It was after one of those excursions that their time together ended. He protested against the idea that his money was more interesting to her than his companionship, and the next day he’d found her in the lap of someone else, and that was that.

“You’re lucky that you’ve been able to keep your mother’s home,” he replies. Her mother was her tie to the city, the reason that she’d come there to seek adventure and a rugged Marcher husband that would save her from her father’s cruel ways. It sounded very dashing at the time, but as Sebastian looks back on it, he wonders how much of it was true.

“It is a home,” she sighs, shrugging with one shoulder and gesturing vaguely around her, clearly dissatisfied. The knowledge that she will likely be thrilled to move into the Keep fails to lift his spirits as it did with Maresa. For Delphine, she will likely only see it as finally getting what she deserves.

They sit quietly for so long that Sebastian catches himself counting the clop of a horse’s hooves as it passes by outside. After an absence of seventeen years, he’d thought that perhaps Delphine would be interested to know where he went, what he’s been doing, why he came back, but no questions come. He tells himself that perhaps it’s presumptuous to think that the other half of a short, tempestuous affair should be so interested in his past, and gives up, instead turning to the matter at hand. It will be awkward to break the silence with, but the silence has stretched so long as to be awkward no matter how it’s broken.

Sebastian clears his throat and sits forward slightly in the chair, making sure to catch Delphine’s attention before he speaks. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry about Albert, that I never got to know him.” 

Her eyes widen and she draws a quick breath. “How do you know about him?” There’s suspicion in her voice, and she glances back and forth between Sebastian and Hawke as if she’s embarrassed to have him mentioned in front of a stranger.

“I’ve been investigating the fire, trying to find out what happened.” It’s not entirely false. Among the records, he’s found the names of many dead, but none of them have given him a clue as to the cause of the fire, if any cause can ever be found, and indeed such questions are secondary to him when compared to his search for his illegitimate sons and daughter, and their parents.

Delphine rests her fingers delicately on her collar bone. “Such a sweet boy,” she continues, following the whisper with a breathy sigh. “It’s been so many years now, but I still think about him every day. Such a good boy, but he was so unhappy in the Circle, Basti. Here I gave him everything,” She turns in the chair and gestures around the room, though Sebastian sees no sign that a child has ever lived there. “There he had only a simple bed, simple robes. It is not a life, even for a mage. I understood that he needed to go there, though, because that is where mages belong.” Her final words come with a pointed look at Hawke, and any thought that Sebastian might have that Delphine was unaware of Hawke’s reputation vanishes. 

Hawke makes a soft sound of disagreement, sucking at her teeth but saying nothing. Sebastian regrets that he has little more than a glance to offer her. There was a time when he would have spoken the same way of mages, and it was a time that Delphine would recall. No doubt she believes she’s speaking to someone like-minded in him. “I never knew that you had magic in your blood,” he replies, hinting in his tone that he knows this to be the truth. Given Albert’s paternity, there is only one option for where his magic could have come from. Sebastian’s royal blood can be traced back from both his mother and his father. He no longer sees no shame in the idea that there might be magic in the blood of his ancestors, but he also knows too well the hushed tones that are used to discuss such things among a city’s upper classes.

Delphine’s hand flies to her mouth as she gasps. “Oh, no, no. It could not be my blood. I--” Her laugh is shrill, clipped and nervous, and she pats the hair behind her ear as she continues, glancing up and away from Sebastian. “This is embarrassing, but there was some question as to who his father was. We were young, everything was so exciting, you remember?”

It is not the word that he would use to describe those memories, but he doesn’t want to take that from her if it can be avoided, and so he offers no reply to her question. He remembers enough to be here, to have found her and to come to speak to her of this. “I am sorry, Delphine,” he starts, furrowing his brow as he looks at her and waiting to continue until her gaze returns to him. “It must have been your blood. I know it wasn’t the father’s, because I was his father.”

He sees her mind work, her eyes narrowing and widening, her brows rising and the corners of her mouth turning up from a frown as she goes from preparing to refute it, to reconsidering, to delighted. “I always knew it,” she breathes, full of conviction that didn’t exist moments ago when she insisted she was unsure of Albert’s paternity. “Basti, he was so beautiful, he looked so much like you!” She reaches out to cup his cheek and the lace is coarse on his skin. He straightens, stopping himself before he pulls away entirely.

It’s not the reaction he anticipated, that she so quickly accepts this news and moves on. He imagined more questions. Delphine has no less reason to wonder, as far as he remembers, but she has shown little curiosity in him so far, so perhaps it was naive of him to think that this revelation would open that inside of her. Beside him, Hawke shifts in her seat, her knee bumping against his leg. He understands it’s meant to be some unspoken communication, but he can’t figure out what it is she means to say. It is less straightforward than a supportive hand on his back, more subtle than her fingers in his hair, or her hand in his. When he glances at her, her eyes are soft, and she offers him a faint sympathetic smile. It warms him, even if he feels like he can’t return it. 

“He came into his magic young, they told me.” Delphine takes her hand from his cheek, folding them both in her lap and looking down at them. “Of course I had to let him go, the Circle is the best place for him, but they wouldn’t even let me bring him his nice clothes and toys. My little boy!” The anger that lights in her voice comes to Sebastian as more honest than much of what she’s shown him today, and he is moved to hear it. Delphine always put herself first; when he’d heard she had a child, his first thought was to wonder how they fared under her care, and he is relieved to see and hear that Delphine’s love for her son was genuine.

Hawkes shifts beside him again, now more clearly uncomfortable when Delphine’s grief shatters into a wail, and Sebastian tenses as well, unsure how to handle such deep and vocal sorrow. Scooting his chair closer to her, he wraps an arm around her to try to calm her, and Delphine all but crawls into his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder. Her sobs turn quickly to sniffles and her hands seem to go from grasping to caressing as she calms where she rests against him. Over her shoulder, he looks at Hawke with panic. She, in turn, presses her lips to a thin line and shakes her head as she watches the display.

“I have been so lost without him,” Delphine mumbles, and Sebastian pulls away when he realizes how close her lips are to his neck and ear. “There has been no one to help me. I have taken jobs but nothing lasts. People can be so cruel, they do not understand. I am not made to scrub floors or pour ale, I am no rabbit!”

Sebastian pries her fingers from his coat and pushes her gently back into her own chair, getting her out of the way only just in time to cover his face with his arm as he sneezes, his head filled with more of her sticky sweet perfume. Hawke leans back in her chair, arms folded over her chest as she eyes Delphine with guarded hostility. Hawke knows what they came here to do, and Sebastian is grateful that she has chosen to retreat rather than interfere in this moment. He could scarcely blame her if she chose to say something, but she doesn’t and it is a relief for him. Sebastian pities Delphine, and while his desire to help her remains unwavering, he can not ignore the embarrassment that comes at her displays and the way she speaks. This was once the sort of woman that he spent his time with, and if he were to look at himself in the past, he would likely hear the same things coming from his own mouth. 

“Did you never marry, Delphine?” It’s a poor attempt to shift the subject from her son to some other aspect of her life. One look around her house tells him that no man lives there. There is lace on almost every surface, flowers in vases - some dried, some in various stages of freshness. All of it is pink and sweet, an attempt to retain her girlhood far into her years as a woman. Too late, Sebastian realizes how his question could be interpreted, and sees in Hawke’s raised brows that she, unfortunately, has interpreted it the way he did not intend. He is asking only after her welfare, not after her hand.

Delphine shakes her head, dabbing at her eyes with a dingy kerchief edged with yet more lace. “I never wanted to tie myself to this dreadful city. Even with Albert, I thought I could move him to a Circle closer to Val Royeaux, but we never left, and then there was the fire.” She heaves a shuddering breath and rolls her eyes up to look at the ceiling. 

“I’m glad I found you, Delphine.” Sebastian rushes in an attempt to stave off a new wave of tears. There is some truth in the sentiment, even if the reunion so far has exceeded his expectations for how poorly it could go, and he wants little more than to leave as soon as is polite. “To hear that you’ve had such tragedy in your life, it saddens me as well. I wanted to offer you--”

“Oh, Basti.” She interrupts him and sets one of her hands on top of his own. He glances down at it and slowly draws his hand away while she talks. “There is nothing that you can offer me.” She smiles weakly and then looks away, casting her eyes down but glancing at him again and again as she continues. “I will stay in this house for as long as I can. There are some things I can sell, my mother’s jewelry, my father’s weapons, Albert’s toys and clothes.”

Sebastian sighs, sending a quick, silent prayer to the Maker for patience and guidance. He does his best to believe in the goodness of all people, and his memories of Delphine are fond, but even he can see that she is trying to get something from him. It bothers him to see it, but he will not let it stop him from extending the offer he was already prepared to make. “If you should ever find that you no longer wish to stay in your home, you are welcome to move into the Keep. That's what I wanted to offer you, though of course I understand wanting to--”

Delphine throws herself at him with such force that Sebastian’s chair rocks back, and Hawke starts to her feet, eyes wide and a hand on the dagger she keeps inside her coat. It is only a violent embrace, nothing more sinister, and Sebastian shakes his head at her, even as he struggles in Delphine’s grip. Hawke turns away but keeps watching them from the corner of her eye.

“Yes!” Delphine cries, her tone startling close to a sort of ecstasy that doesn’t match the situation at all. Her mouth is almost at his ear again and she shouts with such volume that his eyes water. “Yes, of course I will move to be with you! I will pack my things and wait for the carriage tonight, Basti!” She peppers his face with kisses as she speaks, leaving him twisting in the chair to keep her from finding his lips.

“I’m-- I would-- It’s--” He gives up and stumbles to his feet, peeling her off him once again and holding his hands out as he takes a step back. Delphine keeps her distance as she stands as well, hands clasped in front of her as she beams up at him, looking more than prepared to resume her overtures at the least provocation.

Hawke is already at the door, and Sebastian could not agree more that it’s time for them to make a swift exit. “It was good to find you well, Delphine, but my Lady Hawke and I should be heading back. There are preparations to be made now, it seems.”

He does his best to make his goodbye short and polite, but Delphine appears just as determined to draw it out, clutching his hand and trying again to kiss him, trailing after him to the door and pulling on his arm as if to keep him in the house. Even when they are out on the street, she lingers in the doorway, and his skin crawls as he feels her eyes roaming over him as he and Hawke walk away. Hawke’s touches are soft and kind; they light sparks under his skin and leave him glowing from within in a way he’s never known. Delphine’s needy pawing leaves him feeling oily, as if there should be stains on his clothes and skin, and a faint longing starts in him for a hot bath upon their return to the Keep to remove the last vestiges of her perfume and the lingering itch of her lace gloves.

“Well.” Hawke waits until they’re out of earshot, and for that Sebastian is grateful.

“Maker’s breath, Padi, can you forgive me?” He runs a hand over his face as if he could wipe off the shame that burns on his cheeks. “I was a different man when I was with her.” He stops at the open end of an alley and steps in, moving them off the street. “That is what I didn’t want you to see. There is so much of my past that I am ashamed of, not only my actions but my attitudes and opinions as well.”

Hawke nods. Her expression is so neutral as to be unreadable when he looks at her again, with no indication if she is angry or disappointed or hurt. She would be right to be any of these things, and part of him wishes that she was more open with how she’s feeling so that he could answer it and accept the blame that he has coming.

“You’re a good man, Sebastian, to take her into your home after all of that today.” Her voice is kind, and when she sets a hand on his upper arm, he almost sways into the touch. Her reaction is not at all what he expected. In her eyes he thinks he sees more that she’s not telling him, but he doesn’t want to push. 

“I couldn’t not,” he explains. “I know she’ll likely take it as her right rather than a gift, but I can do little about that now.” He sighs and glances back the way they came, frustrated and resigned. “Hopefully, with time, she can find a new understanding of her place in the world, as I have.”

Hawke shakes her head a little, glancing away back up the street. “I’m worried she’ll be trouble for you. The way she threw herself at you back there--”

“Please know that it meant nothing,” he rushes to say, needing her to know. “I wish I could’ve said something, perhaps I should have made it clear that I have no interest in being her lover again. Ever,” he adds, sighing as he shakes his head. “She was always enthusiastic, but I wish you hadn’t seen that. I don’t want you to doubt.”

“Yes, you should have.” She nods as he explains, sucking at her teeth and watching him with slightly raised brows, a line forming between them as he laments not doing more. He sees now that it affected her, how she did doubt and tried to cover it with calm indifference. It’s not what he wants her to think she needs to do.

“There is no one for me but you,” he reassures her, reaching up to tuck an errant lock of hair back behind her ear. Hawke leans into the touch, and the smile that she gives him is the first genuine smile he’s seen since they arrived at Delphine’s home. A weight lifts from his chest to see it, some of the fear and guilt and shame floating away into the still air above them.

“I don’t want to doubt that,” she replies, running her hand down his arm to give his hand a squeeze. “I was frustrated,” she continues, and Sebastian draws a breath. “It was hard to watch another woman go after you that way.”

“I know, and I don’t want that for you,” he says, knitting his brows and shaking his head a little. “The Keep is your home as well, and if her living there makes you uncomfortable, I will make other arrangements.”

Even as he offers, Hawke shakes her head in reply. “I don’t know that I trust her yet, I admit. I think she wants more than just room and board from you, and I’ll worry until I see that she’s fitting in, but I trust you. If nothing else, at least for the look on your face when she said yes and tried to crawl inside your coat.” She chuckles warmly, shaking her head, and relief floods along Sebastian’s every nerve. They are partners, and they will do this together, but it is also his burden to bear, and he would not see that it turns into a stone on her heart, to have these women in his life again. He is unsure that Hawke and Delphine will ever be as friendly as she is with Maresa, but to know that she trusts him is principal in this.

“Thank you, Hawke. And thank you for coming with me today.” Words are woefully inadequate for the peace and support that surround him as she nods, and they step out of the alley back onto the bustling street, into the late morning sunshine that brightens everything it touches. They stay close to each other as they make they way back to the Keep, and every time their eyes meet, they smile. Perhaps this will work out well after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! It really means a lot to me to see what people think of this story, and while I know I don't always keep up at replies, know that I read every comment and always want to respond. Sometimes I just need to find the words. 
> 
> Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	23. The Chant and the Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In an attempt at diplomacy, the Starkhaven Chantry has invited Sebastian to act as chanter for a day. In another act of diplomacy, Sebastian accepted. Accompanied by Fenris, Hawke spends the day listening to the Chant, contemplating the past and pondering her path forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I could go back in time, I would tell myself to include much more Padi POV in this story from the start. As it was, the idea to show things from her side came to me far too late, and the idea of re-writing the entire thing around another POV would've meant it never got finished. This chapter is sort of a compromise; Sebastian is rather occupied, so instead we spend the day catching up with Hawke. 
> 
> This chapter's art is by blasteddoodles on tumblr and was [originally posted here](https://blasteddoodles.tumblr.com/post/185965433958/sketch-for-ko-fi-padi-hawke-and-sebastian-vael-for).

Red has never been her favorite color. Even in this deep wine shade, she still feels that she stands out too much, will draw too much attention to herself. Bethany assured her that the gown was fine, and indeed it looks like something that her sister would wear, with tight sleeves and bare shoulders, the line up to her neck broken by the straps of the bodice. It’s looser, more modest than some of the other things she wears, the sleeves so long that they’re held in place by a loop of fabric between her thumb and forefinger. 

She piles her hair into a bun at the base of her neck and casts a last glance in the mirror. She looks tired, tries to tell herself that she’s not used to having a child around, but immediately dismisses the idea and scolds herself. Neriah is not a child, even if she is not yet as much a woman as she thinks she is. Hawke is tired because of Neriah and Maresa as well as the shrill Orlesian whirlwind that descended on the Keep earlier, but it is nothing they’ve done that keeps her awake at night.

Maresa and her daughter are good people. Maresa is kind and wise in her way; she’s lived a life far different from what any of them can imagine, even if Hawke sees herself in parts of it. She’d sold her body to the Red Iron in exchange for entrance to Kirkwall, but it would be naive and unfair to both of them to compare their occupations. Neriah is vibrant, youthful and inquisitive in a way that Hawke finds herself unequipped to deal with. The girl is a fount of curiosity with precious little filter in her questioning, with no regard for how Hawke may feel to be asked about Kirkwall, about killing slavers, killing bandits, killing Qunari. Hawke dreads the thought that someday Neriah will ask about killing a friend, and she will have to decide between offering up bits of herself to keep the peace for Sebastian’s sake, or shutting the girl down once and for all, as her subtle attempts to step around previous answers have been ignored.

She sets a hand on her stomach just under her ribs and takes a deep breath. The twinge of pain behind the scar reminds her that she’s alive. She survived, and in the end the Arishok very much didn’t. She’s managed through far worse than a girl and her questions, and she will manage today as well. This should be a celebration, yet trepidation creeps up the back of her neck at the thought of all the small ways this could go wrong.

Shaking her head at her own reflection, she turns away and heads out of her room and down the stairs. Canut meets her at the doorway, back end wiggling at the prospect of a day in town.

“Sorry, buddy, not today,” she sighs. “Andraste’s Mabari doesn’t show up in the Chant, and that means you can’t either, I’m afraid. I’ll be back soon.”

He whines and follows along with her, stopping at the bottom of the stairs when she comes down to find Fenris standing by the door, dressed in uniform, arms folded behind his back. He stiffens when Hawke makes eye contact, then swallows and looks away. Her reaction is much the same when she pauses on the stairs, unsure what his presence means.

“I expected you to wear your armor,” Fenris explains. “I’m still not accustomed to seeing you dressed like that.”

“I’m not used to wearing it, either,” she offers in return, “but I thought  _ Champion, armor, Chantry _ , not a good combination.” She looks down, sweeping her skirts to one side to examine them. The joke is dry at best, and neither of them laugh, even if the glance that they share has a certain lightness to it. “Bethany picked it out, and she knows the Maker better than I do, so hopefully He’ll approve.”

Fenris shifts his weight, drawing her attention again. “I would like to accompany you.”

Her eyes widen, and she steps down off the last stair, moving closer to him. “Do you think I need protection?” She pauses, her eyes moving over his face while her mind works through possible scenarios that would lead him to want to go with her to the Chantry. “Do you think  _ Sebastian  _ needs protection?” That would be enough to send her upstairs to change. The Prince was invited to lead the Chant today, and while the Chantry will likely have a generous attendance of Templars, Fenris is protective of Sebastian in a way that Hawke finds charming, but if he perceives a real threat then she’s not about to let him face it alone.

“No, no, it’s not that.” His discomfort is a visible thing, the way he rolls his shoulders and looks towards the door, more eager to go than to talk about why he wants to go. “I haven’t been to the Chantry since we left Kirkwall. I don’t know how Starkhaven feels about elves in their Chantry, and I haven’t wanted to go alone.”

That is something different entirely, and her brows rise as he explains. Hawke relaxes, relieved to hear that Fenris’ request is a personal one, not based on concern for Sebastian. She smiles, hoping it looks as encouraging as she means it to be. “Of course. I’d be glad of the company.”

At that, it’s his turn to look surprised, though he does his best to cover the expression as soon as it lights up his face.

“All right,” he answers after a moment’s pause. “Shall we, then?”

He nods towards the door, and Hawke nods to him, following at his elbow when he makes his way outside.

The morning is cool but promises a warm day, the fog from the river already banished from the upper circles but still blanketing the lower parts of the city in clouds. There are few people about, but all of them are headed in the same direction. It’s not every day that the Prince leads the Chant; it will be a social occasion not to be missed by those who wish to see and be seen, and from what Hawke understands of the Chantry in Starkhaven, that may well take precedence over the earnest faithful who come to hear the Chant and spend time in prayer and contemplation.

Hawke suspects that neither she nor Fenris are a part of that group that seek to be noticed by the nobility. They walk beside each other in stiff silence across the smooth stone courtyard outside the Keep, and she can all but hear it when someone’s eyes graze them, Fenris bristling only to take a breath and attempt to relax again. She is not much better, fluctuating between raising her chin in feigned haughty pride, and pulling in on herself to appear small and unnoteworthy. All she wants is to go the Chantry and sit and listen for a while, but she is going because Sebastian is there, and can she really count herself as better than these others, who also flock to the Chantry to see the Prince? Her inability to answer the question to her own satisfaction leaves her quiet and frustrated as they walk.

What a pair they must seem, side by side in total silence, barely looking at each other as they cross the open square. She and Fenris have never understood each other, even as they fought side by side, and here in Starkhaven she’s found that they seem content to move in separate spheres, rarely talking or spending more time together when necessary. When she tried, it seemed too late, and so she is at a loss for words now.

“We didn’t get along much in Kirkwall. I was always sorry about that.” She’s careful not to turn to look at him when she says it, only glancing out of the corner of her eye. It’s a slow walk; he falls into step at her elbow and she changes her gait until he is beside her again. 

“I was not the easiest person to get along with at times,” he concedes, keeping his gaze forward. “Especially for someone as committed to the cause of mage freedom as you were.”

“As committed to Anders as I was,” she corrects, though she tries to do so kindly. It tastes like old coins in her mouth, but it’s the better truth. She would have hidden Bethany all her life if she had to, would have considered it her privilege to do so, without sparing more than a thought for the others who were living the life she was saving her sister from. If Anders did anything, he brought that dissonance to the surface of her mind.

Fenris is quiet for a moment, as if giving room for the name to dissipate into the chill morning air. “From where I was, it looked like one and the same.”

Hawke nods. It’s not hard to understand, and she and Fenris never had occasion to discuss it. She saw no way to approach the subject with him, and he’d seemed so decided in the matter that it wasn’t worth asking at the time. It’s hardly the distant past now, but at the same time the discussion is pointless, the centerpiece of it no longer relevant.

A pair of children run past them, giggling and looking back as a man--presumably their father--rushes to catch up to them, scooping each of them up under one arm. Their chatter comes to Hawke on a breeze, only small bits of it, but they are also headed to the Chantry, and she hopes that they’ll be able to get in without incident. Children most of all should be allowed free passage to such things. 

“I never thanked you,” Hawke mutters. Even now, it seems an odd choice of words, but she was grateful then, whether he knew it or not. Whether her did it for her or not. “At the end, when everything went wrong. You supported me.”

Fenris huffs, an unclear noise that could be disagreement or disgust. “It was giving him what he thought he deserved. He and I just happened to agree on that.” There’s a pause, and Hawke turns to look at him only to see him looking back at her. “It can’t have been easy for you,” he adds, softer. 

She shakes her head and looks away.

They resume their silence, and Hawke can only assume that he is sifting through memories just as she is. Hers are not memories that she’d looked to revisit on a walk to the Chantry, however, and she finds herself brushing them aside one after the other. She is not looking for something in particular, but images of Anders, Elthina, the Arishok all rise to her mind, and she flips past them as if turning pages in a book.

“Sebastian made a wise choice with you.” She’s not sure if Fenris is interested in talking, but the silence weighs more on her shoulders for each passing minute, and she stops ignoring the push inside her to reach out to him again. “And I think, if I may say so, you made a wise choice coming with him. I’ve seen you, with some of the men. You look like-- Are you enjoying it?”

He nods, squinting up at the sky, then lowering his chin slightly to look at the Chantry where it grows before them as they approach. “I didn’t know that I would, but I am. It’s a purpose, yet it still gives me the freedom I want. I leave in a few days’ time for the border with Tevinter, to hunt slavers.”

She smiles and nods. She’d heard from Sebastian that Fenris asked permission, which in and of itself was remarkable to her. He and a small contingent of guards would be going north to investigate and stop some incursions that they’d heard about from newcomers to the city. “I admire you, Fenris. I don’t know that I’d have had the strength to do what you did, to get myself out, and to make a life as you have.”

He stops walking, and when she turns back to look, he is watching her with owlish eyes. “I-- Thank you, Hawke.”

She’s unsure what to say in reply, so she says nothing, only offers him another smile, this time warmer and wider, and when she nods in the direction of the Chantry, one corner of his mouth tugs up as well before he starts to walk with her again. To Hawke, it seems as if something has settled between them, a long-held tension not completely released, but slackened somewhat. It is a good feeling, and she hopes that it’s the same for him.

The doors to the Chantry stand wide open when they arrive. On one side, a Sister holds a basket looped over her arm, smiling serenely as she takes donations from nobles. On the other, a Templar sorts through folk clearly from the lower circles of Starkhaven: their clothing is rougher, with no fine embroidered details or expensive sashes worn only to show that they have the coin to afford excess fine fabric. Some of them still wear gloves or aprons from their work, and mothers tug at children’s arms to shush them where they stand in line, bored and agitated. Hawke watches as a young man approaches, only to see the Templar and turn, hurrying back the way he came, casting glances over his shoulder as he goes.

“They are looking for mages,” Fenris observes, his tone suggesting that he doesn’t disapprove.

“They’re turning people away from the Chantry,” she counters, her disapproval plain in her voice. She is already headed towards the Templar, and hears Fenris hurry to catch up to her as she strides forward. Now she wishes she had worn her armor. It would make her look more the Champion and less like a put-upon spoiled noblewoman.

“‘Morning, madam.” The Templar is young, but tall, broad, with black hair and deep blue eyes. When he frowns at Fenris, there is a moment when Hawke sees her brother in him, and she has to swallow the shock of it to recover her nerve. “You can go to the other door there, but I’ll need to have a moment with your companion,” the Templar explains. 

She and Fenris exchange a glance. “May I ask why?” Hawke settles her weight and folds her arms across her chest, head tilted just so. If she looks like nobility, she may as well try to act like one of them. They seem to be able to get whatever they want just by arguing, and Hawke’s no stranger to aggressive verbal negotiations with Templars. 

The Templar shifts his weight, his armor grinding at the joints. The veil of superiority he wore when she approached vanishes. He’s likely unused to being questioned, and Hawke fights to keep the corner of her mouth from pulling up into a smirk. “We’re just don’t want any problems in the Chantry, is all,” he explains, pointedly looking at her and not at Fenris. “With the Prince leading the Chant, it’s standing room only inside.”

“And what, pray tell, makes you think that a man wearing the uniform and insignia of the Captain of the City Guard would be a  _ problem _ ?” She leans on the last word, and his eyes widen as they move to take in Fenris again. Hawke doesn’t need to turn to know that Fenris has straightened where he stands, pulled up to this full height to look down his nose at the Templar. Fenris might be shorter, but he is bigger than this man in every other way, and all three of them know it.

The Templar deflates and looks back to her, clearly not accustomed to being argued with. “I beg your pardon, madam, serah, the Knight-Commander was very clear.” 

His words trail off as he looks away to the side. There are two clearly more senior Templars standing in the shadow of the Chantry, hands on their swords while they chat with each other. Hawke follows his eyes when he looks to them, and moves to put herself between him and them as if it was the most natural place for her to be. 

“What did he say? You can tell me.” She leans in and looks up at him under an arched brow. “I’m practically famous among the Templars where I come from. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Fenris look away quickly, coughing into his fist to hide a snicker. While they talk, the people in the Templar’s line move past unchecked. It’s a side effect she hadn’t considered, but not one that she’s unhappy to see. She wants to get inside, but if keeping him distracted lets more of the honest faithful in to hear the Chant, then she’s satisfied with that as well. If nothing else, it’s what Sebastian would want. 

“He said no elves, madam, and to detain any mages that might try to get in.” The Templar shifts his weight and mumbles, looking down when he speaks. Hawke sighs and shakes her head. He knows that this is wrong, and yet he’s more willing to listen to the Knight-Commander than his own instinct.

“And there are no mages among the nobility?” Fenris’ voice could draw blood, and the Templar goes pale as he looks to where the Sister is still smiling, nodding thanks as coins clatter into her basket.

“I-- He only said--”

“What’s your name?” She can’t help but feel for him and tries to ask the question kindly. Maybe it’s his eyes, maybe it’s that he is so clearly unprepared for any resistance to the task he’s been given. It frustrates her to think that this could be the first objection he’s encountered, that those below nobles in Starkhaven could be used to being turned away from the Chantry, that the only reason she’s been able to keep an audience with him so far is because she looks like nobility, and perhaps acts like one of them as well.

“Markus Kindl, madam.” The name strikes a chord at the back of her mind, and for a moment she studies his face, but she finds nothing there to explain why the name would seem familiar to her. He clearly doesn’t recognize her - a trait she’s not accustomed to among Templars, but one she’s been grateful for up until now. It’s time, however, to make herself known so that this argument can end and she and Fenris can go inside.

“Well, Markus, let’s do this.” She unfolds her arms and sets her hands on her hips. “I think you and your Templar friends should go back to the barracks and think about the Chant of Light, especially the passage about all of us being the Maker’s children, not just those with round ears and coin. So that’s your part.” He starts to resist, but she holds up a hand. His mouth snaps shut and he waits, and at that she does smirk. “What’ll I’ll do, as Champion of Kirkwall, is that I’ll go inside with Fenris, Captain of the Guard here and listen to our dear friend Prince Sebastian while he leads the Chant, and when he’s done, I’ll talk to him about how you were only following orders, and didn’t consider the ramifications of keeping the faithful from seeking guidance from the Maker, and then the three of us will have a chat with the Knight-Commander about how you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Fenris grumbles behind her, but he’ll get over it and knows better than to protest openly when she’s so close to succeeding. Markus, on the other hand, has gone even paler, white as a sheet at the mention of her title. His eyes flick from her to the Templars behind her and back, and the thought comes to her that he could call them over, and the dagger in her boot isn’t enough to keep her from being taken by three Templars. Luckily, however, the idea doesn’t seem to occur to him.

“Surely with the two of us here, you can agree the Chantry will be in safe hands?” The irony of the statement doesn’t escape her, but there’s also truth in it. “Go. And make sure you tell those two who I am as well. Off with you, then. Dismissed.” She shoos him away with her hands, watching and waiting while he goes to the other Templars and explains. They all turn back to look at her, and she wiggles her fingers in a wave, giving them her calmest, most determined smile until they concede and sulk away.

“Nothing wrong?” Fenris turns on her and hisses as soon as they’ve moved on, leaning in close to her, sparks in his eyes as he glares. 

Hawke rolls her eyes. She doesn’t want to downplay his anger; Fenris has every right to be angry about how he was treated, but ripping the man’s heart out would not have solved the problem they were facing. “He is barely more than a child. Templars struggle enough with independent thought, and they put one that young here. It’s not his fault, and maybe now he’ll think next time, and learn something instead of just blindly following orders.”

He sighs, but when she turns to face him again, he’s smiling, just a little, one corner of his mouth turned up as he shakes his head.

“I had forgotten how enjoyable it could be to let you talk. Even if I disagree about that Templar, you handled this well.” The words come slowly, as if he has to pull them out individually, but she appreciates them all the same, and it’s her turn to blink wide-eyed at him, unsure what to do with such unexpected praise.

“Thank you, Fenris,” she replies, doing her best to make the sincerity of it clear. “Now, shall we?” Hawke offers him her arm, and he takes it grudgingly, but still with the same slight smile. 

It didn’t feel like a lot of talking at the door, but as soon as they step through the archway, Hawke is surrounded by the sort of hush she’s only ever felt in Chantries. Even the one in Lothering had the same overwhelming sense of presence that she feels now, as if faith could be given form and hang in the air as motes, to be breathed in and out and shared among the faithful, resting on skin and settling on eyelashes until everyone inside was covered in it and filled with it.

The nave is packed, just as the Templar said, though from what she can see from this distance it’s mostly nobles in the pews and everyone else around the outside walls. The dark wood panels on the lower parts of the Chantry’s walls are hidden by bodies, making the space seem that much lighter, white stretching above them to a ceiling painted blue and speckled with stars. The air is thick with the scent of candle wax and expensive perfume, and she can’t help but think that it would turn Sebastian’s stomach to know that this is a social engagement for them rather than a show of devotion to the Maker. Hopefully, wherever he is singing from, he can’t see it.

“Lady Hawke. Captain.” A hand settles ever so lightly on her arm. Hawke whirls to look at her attacker only to come face to face with a startled Sister. They both look down at the hand on her arm and the Sister pulls away quickly, glancing at Hawke and then indicating a wide staircase leading up to a mezzanine. “This way please.”

Fenris eyes the Sister with suspicion but remains quiet, dropping Hawke’s arm as they make their way up the stairs. She can only assume that the Sister heard some of the discussion outside the door, but Hawke doesn’t question it, preferring to simply gather her skirts and climb the stairs in silence. She really, truly did not come here today to make a scene and ruin this wonderful opportunity for Sebastian, but she knows too well that disaster has a way of dogging her footsteps. Hopefully she’s managed to leave it waiting for her outside the Chantry for the day. 

“They don’t normally do that,” Fenris mutters. “Tell people where to go.”

Hawke shakes her head. “I suppose it’s because there’s no room, they have to help people find it.” She keeps her voice as low as she can. “Some people will sit here all day just to be able to say they sat here all day listening.”

He makes a noise at the back of his throat and shakes his head but doesn’t speak again. It’s odd, the way that the presence of so many people gives the day a sense of ceremony. The Chant is, after all, sung constantly, though some days during the year are more well-attended than others.

The balcony they’ve been shown to is only slightly less crowded. Another Sister meets their eyes and nods to indicate seats at the front edge. There is no way that those have been left empty by chance, and Hawke keeps her eyes down as she makes her way there, not wanting to come face to face with whoever it was that was moved so that she and Fenris could have a good view of the altar.

Sebastian is easy to spot, placed at the front, to one side of the foot of the towering golden statue of Andraste that dominates the altar area. He shaved off his beard the night before, and from this distance he looks not a day older than he did when she’d come to find him in the Chantry to tell him that she’d taken out Flint Company. The light reflected from the statue behind him gives him a rainbow glow, and the floor on either side of him is painted in brilliant colors as light streams in from the stained glass windows above.

He looks perfectly at home in the red and grey robes of the Chantry. A huge book of the Chant rests on a stand nearby, but he keeps his hands clasped before him, neither looking nor turning the pages. Hawke can see the top corner of one page, the illuminated script making the first letter large and intricate.

“These truths the Maker has revealed to me…” 

His voice is deeper than she anticipated, but it comes to her clearly over the susurrus of nobles bowed over their borrowed copies of the Chant, trying to follow along, and she smiles to hear it, feels the way the words wrap around her like a blanket, close and warm and familiar, as if meant for her alone. Those faithful who are forced to line the walls sing with more surety than the nobles, and while Hawke knows the words to this Canticle, she keeps her own voice low to better listen to Sebastian. The Canticle of Transfigurations is beautiful, and he brings it to life as she has never heard it before, sung with perfect clarity and conviction. 

And love. Every word is formed by it, buoyed and lifted into the air with it, the richness of his song proclaiming an unwavering adoration for the Maker and His Bride and all that He created. There is no doubt in her mind, and in her heart, that all who pass through this Chantry today leave blessed, that Sebastian is somehow praying for each of them personally.

He sings of magic, and of those who turn it against man, and Hawke watches as he shifts his weight. His voice never wavers, but he gives gravity to the words in a way that she doesn’t recall from her childhood, as if to drive home the difference between a mage and a Maleficar.  _ They shall find no rest in this world or beyond _ , he sings, and Anders’ face rises up in her mind, the peaceful smile he’d worn when she’d closed his eyes and left him where he lay. There would have been no rest for Anders while he lived, either.

Sebastian moves through the Canticle with practiced grace, and Hawke settles in, crossing her legs under her skirt and resting her elbow on her knee, chin on her hand to watch him. He looks to the faithful when there is a point he wants to be sure they listen to:  _ All men are the Work of our Maker’s Hands. _ When he tells the tale of Andraste’s sermon, he bows his head, and Hawke sees the nobility do the same, only popping up to see if he is still standing, eyes closed, in contemplation as he sings. Transfigurations 12 is offered with his head thrown back and arms wide, entreating, and he steps away from the stand as he begs the Maker to know his heart and judge him whole. Every eye in the building follows him, and Hawke is no exception, her heart in her throat as she listens to him, moved to real emotion by Sebastian’s pleading voice. 

The chapter of Transfigurations ends to a smattering of applause as Sebastian goes quiet, but he shakes his head and waves a hand for them to stop. Another singer picks up the next chapter immediately, but Sebastian does not leave. He bends to collect a goblet of water at his feet, drinking and looking around at those assembled. His eyes move to the mezzanine, and Hawke thinks she sees him react, raised brows and a smile behind the goblet, but he makes no other move to acknowledge them, and so she puts it from her mind. 

“How long?” She starts at the feel of Fenris’ breath on her ear, flushing and giving him an awkward smile. He flinches as well, backing away from her as if he’d been unaware how close he was until she turned to look. “How long do you think he’ll stay there for?”

“I don’t know,” she whispers back. “I’ve never been in a Chantry for that long at once.” The answer does nothing to help with her awkwardness, and she looks down at her hands as he settles again where he sits next to her, if not content with her answer then accepting it. “If you want to go, that’s all right, but I’ll stay a while longer.”

Fenris appears to consider the offer, looking into the distance as he comes to a decision. After a moment he shakes his head and returns to where he’s bowed over his own copy of the Chant.

A noble dressed in a gaudy Orlesian doublet stands and starts to approach Sebastian at the foot of the statue, only to be met by a Sister who seems to come from nowhere. Their conversation is inaudible, but the man gestures emphatically, looking that much more foolish for the Sister’s gentle movements, stepping to the side, shaking her head. She glances back at Sebastian, who gives the subtlest shake of his head, but it’s enough for the man to be escorted from the nave. 

Hawke watches the interaction, moving her eyes but not her head to keep an eye on him as he goes, still waving his arms. The other nobles shy away from him as if his recalcitrance could be contagious, but the other faithful shush him loudly. She suspects she hears the scuffle of him being bodily removed from the Chanty, and her gaze flicks to Sebastian just in time to see him frown. That his presence could serve as a disruption was one of the things that concerned him when he accepted the invitation, and Hawke is disappointed on his behalf to see it come true. Even if the man’s interest in Sebastian had nothing to do with the Chant, he was there to receive the Maker’s blessing, and would now be denied that thanks to his own behavior.

Hawke sighs, lifting her eyes from Sebastian to take in the rest of the building around them. Like Fenris, she hasn’t visited since arriving in Starkhaven, though her concern has been one of not wanting to cause alarm by being in the vicinity of a Chantry after what happened on Kirkwall. Sebastian’s day is too important to him for her to stay away, however. 

She takes in the high white walls of the Chantry, the deep blue of the ceiling slashed through with supports painted in gold that’s dulled and cracked from ages of exposure to the warm, dry air. The floors of the balconies--one on each side of the wide central aisle--are carpeted in the same deep blue with stars stitched into them, and the balustrades both in front of her and in front of Sebastian are made of wood and brass, giving the look of gold without the expense. The pews below, like the one she and Fenris occupy, are in dark wood with plush red velvet cushions both for sitting, and in front of them if they should wish to kneel.

The centerpiece of the Chantry is the stained glass window on the back wall, high and round and wide enough to dwarf even the statue of Andraste that stands where its light is falling. The window glitters with hundreds, thousands of shards of colored glass, intricately arranged to tell the tale of Andraste’s life, to show the defilement of the Golden City, to act as a pictorial guide to the Chant. The Chantry does not require that one can read or write to take part in the Chant; this is part of what the chanters do when they sing, and it is the job of the building itself, to house the holy, but also to educate, to spread the Chant through paintings and sculpture. To Hawke, when she thinks of the Light of the Maker, she doesn’t see a solid glow of golden-white light from above. In her mind she imagines colors not unlike the ones that paint the gilded statue of Andraste, and the quiet crowd of nobles, and Sebastian himself where he stands before the balustrade and sings.

The Chantry is warm to the point of stuffy, the air heavy with the scent of incense and perfume and people. Sebastian’s voice is captivating and the Chant is beautiful and melodic, but all of this combines to send Hawke’s thoughts wandering. Her gaze moves from Sebastian to the stained glass window and back again; try as she might, it is impossible to follow just one of the strands of light all the way up. It is her vision that fails her - the light itself is still, disturbed only by tendrils of candle smoke and motes of dust that she is too far away to see. 

One cannot see music any more than light gives off a sound, yet as Hawke listens, she wonders if there could be an exception for the Maker’s Light. It looks so solid, so deeply colored where it falls onto nobles and statues and singers, that if Hawke were to run her hand through it, she would hear notes like the wind chime that hung at the corner of the porch at their home on Lothering. Surely the Maker’s Light comes in many forms so that everyone can experience it: as light, as sound for those who cannot see, or as warmth for those who can neither see nor hear the Chant. 

The Lothering Chantry was a much simpler building, smaller and built of wood and cobblestone. The air smelled like old tinder and wax rather than incense and perfume. The windows there were also colored glass, but the patterns were abstract and the colors paled in comparison to the intricate work of art in Starkhaven. The Maker is likely uninterested in what the Chantry looks like, but as a monument to man’s love of the Maker, Lothering’s Chantry was modest at best, a humble entreaty to Andraste to watch over them and protect them. That didn’t stop the chanters from singing with the same amount of faith and devotion, however.

She sighs and shakes her head, drawing as deep a breath as she can in the warm, close air. That Chantry, like their home and the wind chime, was left behind when they fled the Blight, and it’s likely there’s nothing left of them now. Before her, she sees an image of a stone statue of Andraste standing in a pile of smoking rubble, and she squeezes her eyes closed to banish it. 

When she opens her eyes again, she looks away from the window, her vision slow to adjust to the relative darkness of the balcony. Fenris sits beside her, curled over the book in his lap. He follows along with one finger, mouthing the words as they’re sung. His face is half-hidden where his hair falls down around his cheeks, but what Hawke can see of his expression is animated as he reads along with the Chant, brows working when they come to a word he doesn’t recognize, or a slow smile pushing at the corners of his mouth at a passage he’s read before. 

There is a murmur from the crowd below. Hawke and Fenris look up in tandem in time to see Revered Mother Margot take a place beside Sebastian at the balustrade. Sebastian turns to her and nods without pausing his song, and a moment later she joins him. Her voice is high and wispy with a sort of character that speaks to her having been a greater singer once, but it’s rare for someone of her stature to spend a day chanting, and it’s clear she’s fallen out of practice. 

In appearance, Hawke sees some similarity between Margot and Elthina. She has yet to be introduced to Starkhaven’s Revered Mother, but from what she understands from Sebastian, the two are little alike. Where Elthina was, perhaps, too complacent when it came to intervening between the Templars and mages, Margot is more willing to use her authority, and perhaps less than pleased to have that authority questioned by the Prince, even if she was quick to accept his vows again; another contrast to Elthina, though Hawke still feels she went too far in continuing to question Sebastian’s devotion. Margot is a friend of the Templars, and does not even make an overture towards having the mages’ interests at heart. She is one of the primary reasons that the Circle was still a burned out shell when they arrived in Starkhaven, years after the fire. 

Her gesture of coming out to sing the Chant with Sebastian is a show for the faithful and little more, but it is appreciated by the nobles. Even those with waning energy sit up straighter in the pews when she starts to sing. Fenris and Hawke exchange a bemused glance. For her part, she finds the spectacle of it remarkable to the point of stomach-turning, far from how she imagines the Maker would want to be worshipped. Or perhaps it doesn’t matter to Him as long as He’s worshipped. She frowns to herself, unsure which idea is worse.

Sebastian, she thinks, would likely agree with her about the former. They’d talked about it when the invitation first arrived. It was a show of good faith. It was a deeply political move on the part of the Chantry. It was an obvious ploy, an opportunity to gain favor with the Prince and cement a continued alliance between the Chantry and the Crown. 

It was, perhaps, even an appeal to the Prince’s vanity, as the letter was peppered with mentions of how he’d sung is his youth, that his voice has surely only improved with the years. The platitudes did not leave him completely unmoved; he was flattered to be remembered, but the decision, in the end, had come down to something much more humble, and somehow utterly Sebastian: he missed singing the Chant for the faithful, and welcomed the opportunity to do it again.

That he is enjoying himself is written all over his face, his joy visible even from a distance. They have moved to the Canticle of Exaltations, and Sebastian looks at the faithful with pride as he sings of the return of the Maker, of the Light of redemption and Harmony in all things. Margot does her best to keep up with him, but she lacks the volume and certainty of the texts, having to return time and again to the pages before her. There is no shame in it in Hawke’s mind; the Chant is long and meandering, telling tales of history and weaving them with praise and damnation, and no one should be expected to know every word. Even so, Hawke is not surprised to see that Sebastian is confident in his recollection, never stumbling over a phrase or hurrying back to look at the book.

“Let no soul hunger for justice,” Sebastian sings, and her mind turns back to the first day she saw him in the square outside the Chantry. His boldness was surprising and a little startling; shooting a bounty advertisement out of the hand of a Revered Mother to pin it to the Chanters’ Board with an arrow was quite the introduction. Elthina apologized, but Hawke tore the ad down and pocketed it as soon as the Mother disappeared up the stairs. 

She was only barely done with her time in the Red Iron, so more mercenary work seemed like easy money, especially from someone dressed in armor that told her that he could pay well for a job completed. And pay well he did, but what stayed with her even afterwards was the gratitude in his soft voice and his deep blue eyes, the way he’d taken her hand in both of his to give her the coin purse, as if it and she were something precious. Her work with the Iron was impersonal, but for Sebastian this was the most personal of errands, and it showed. 

After she returned from the Deep Roads and bought back her mother’s home--and some of the Amell reputation along with it--Hawke and Sebastian ran into each other occasionally. Fresh nobility was easy prey for the ruthless in Hightown, and both Hawke and Sebastian found themselves suddenly elevated, from a Ferelden refugee and Chantry Brother to people worth taking seriously. He was always polite, and always careful to explain how they met as delicately as possible when asked, but he was never without an agenda that Hawke was no longer able to help him with. Sebastian needed an army, and Hawke had only herself to offer. 

More than once, however, he saved her from an awkward conversation with the widow of a former target or the father of a former employer, none of them the wiser. As he made his case to them for why they should give him arms and men to retake his city, she could stand by and watch and listen. Time after time his arguments convinced her to offer troops she didn’t even have, and she found herself imagining going with him to Starkhaven, marching into battle with only the promise of more softly offered gratitude afterwards. She also found her gaze lingering on his regal profile and the fullness of his lips, the way his hair curled around the shell of his ear, and the way he used his hands when he spoke, how his eyes slid to the side to meet hers when she offered words of support, as if he truly appreciated it despite her having nothing with which to back him.

They drifted past each other in this way for years, and more than once she’s wondered at the impression she must have made on him, that he felt comfortable asking for her help when he’d discovered the plot behind his family’s deaths. Hawke hoped to the last that it wouldn’t come to blood, that Sebastian would be able to leave the Harriman Estate with a clean conscience and a better understanding of what happened, but that was not the case, though she was careful to make sure that the arrow that killed Lady Harriman came from her own bow.

Sebastian became a fixture in her life after that, and she in his. He gave her reason to visit the Chantry, though she sought time with him more than she did guidance from the Maker. The former soothing her heart and soul in a way that the latter rarely achieved. Indeed Sebastian seemed to be the one in need of direction, turning to Hawke for advice on his future, searching her eyes as if he would agree to whatever she suggested. Telling him to leave the Chantry and go back to Starkhaven left him open to the corruption of the life of a royal, to attack and possibly death, and he would be so far away from her there. Recommending he stay in the Chantry didn’t seem a selfish choice back then; he was happy there, and could be happy there again, safe and close to where she could protect him. Knowing what she knows now, Hawke can see that he felt the same way, that his heart was in Kirkwall, in the Chantry, but also with her. Neither of them had any thought of leaving Kirkwall then, and so it seemed the best decision.

_ “If I’d been in that Chantry, would you be waffling?” _ To this day the question twists her stomach and presses on her chest, a wave of heat and force that wash over her like the explosion itself. 

Sebastian was her dearest friend, the only one who seemed to see the pain that she was in, that tried to warn her about what Anders was becoming. She’d been torn between the two, her heart divided between a man who would no longer let her in, and one who seemed to have no place in his life for the partner she wanted to be. She was lonely with Anders, but with Sebastian she was seen, listened to and understood, even if there was so much she couldn’t tell him. The question had crystallized her doubt and uncertainty, and in the end there was no choice at all, only action that needed to be taken. 

Hawke is not too humble to give herself some credit for her making it to Starkhaven, but her gratitude to Sebastian is far greater. He did what she could not for herself, and for her friends, ensuring they were led to safety when Kirkwall crumbled around them. And safe he continued to be, just as he always had been, holding her while she poured her soul out to him in the inn, giving her space and time and a home to recover in while she learned how to be Padi Hawke again, instead of just the Champion of Kirkwall. He refused to let her throw herself into more blood and steel in his name, and in so doing forced her to think about what she really wanted. 

“Excuse me. Pardon. Beg your pardon.” The harsh whispers cut through Hawke’s nostalgic fog and she turns to see a tall, thin whip of a man making his way along the aisle, stepping on feet and hems as he goes. He appears genuinely embarrassed as he moves through the crowd, and too late Hawke realizes he means to sit in the barely adequate space beside her on the bench.

She offers a thin smile when he nods to her and sits, a cloud of perfumes following him to envelope her as well.

“Have I missed much?” He asks, looking from her to the front of the Chantry and back with wide, expectant eyes.

Hawke glances away from him to look at Fenris, who is watching with the same skeptical expression she feels on her own face. It’s yet more evidence that, for some, visiting the Chantry today has little to do with Andraste and the Maker, and more to do with being in the same room as the Prince.

“It’s… the  _ Chant _ ,” she replies, turning to the nobleman again. “It’s constant.”

He has the presence to look flustered at her comment, but recovers quickly. “Well, yes, but the Prince, has he been chanting long?”

“A while, but he’ll likely be a while still.” She lowers her voice and turns away from him, focusing her attention on Sebastian again. “He likes doing this, sharing faith with people this way.”

The nobleman settles as best he can on the bench, folding his hands between his knees and leaning forward, and Hawke sighs to herself, letting the Chant wrap around her and pull her back into her thoughts.

_ What does she really want here in Starkhaven? _

What she wants is this: a life where she knows that she is safe, that those she loves are safe. The life of a royal never seemed appealing, but she has never known that there could be such freedom in it, and having lived in the Keep these months, she’s starting to see the appeal. There is no one to tell her that she can’t go with Fenris to hunt slavers, can’t go into the city at night to stop bandits, but the world no longer rests on her shoulders alone. Sebastian is with her, and she is with him. His vows are not a problem for her; on the contrary, she is proud of him for his commitment, when even the Chantry tells him that they are not important. He is his own man, his own Prince and Brother, and she loves him for it. 

She loves to watch him at court, charming nobles and servants alike, but always with a smile for her. She loves to watch him in the city, bending to greet a child that rushes up to him without letting go of her hand, and today she’s found that she loves him here as well, in the Chantry, his words moving through her and wrapping around her, lifting her own devotion to the Maker as she follows him. She loves him, and it’s clear in her heart and mind, a lightness that stays with her for the rest of the day and colors every other thought she has.

The day passes timelessly around them in a haze of music and words and Hawke’s new certainty. She watches as nobles do their best to sneak out when Sebastian’s back is turned, or in those moments when he closes his eyes to stretch or drink water. The rainbow lights from the windows above Andraste shift as the sun rolls through the sky above them, painting different parts of the audience, and then the walls with light, and the singers move from Apotheosis to Erudition to Silence, always without pausing, even covering each other’s breaths with music. Candles flicker to life where shadows creep in, but Hawke can see from the balcony that the crowd downstairs is thinning. A woman sleeps in a back row, her head fallen back and mouth open to the ceiling. A Sister hovers near her, clearly unsure if she should wake her, or just let her rest. 

Even more people take their leave under the cover of darkness. Hawke hears the sounds of it around her and Fenris, but she has long since decided that she will stay as long as Sebastian stays. For his part, he never leaves the altar entirely. Revered Mother Margot and the others come and go, but Sebastian stays, head bowed in silent contemplation at Andraste’s feet when the others take over to give his voice a rest. His voice and visage are a balm on her soul, as much as if not more than the words he speaks. She recalls with a smile how he told her that she was the warmest places, where he would like to rest. To some it might have seemed like empty sentiment. Even she would admit that her calling herself a wicked temptation was cheeky, but he replied with such sincerity that it stayed with her, the idea that she could be such a thing for someone, for him.

Sebastian tries his best to slip away from the altar without being noticed. Two Sisters have taken up places at the front corners, and he steps back into the shadow of Andraste’s statue. Hawke watches him move carefully to avoid the pastel pools of colored moonlight that fall where the sun shone earlier, but someone sees him, and a round of applause ripples through the pews below. Fenris grunts, and Hawke sees him shake his head out of the corner of her eye. She glances at him and nods in agreement; the Chantry is no place for such shows of devotion to an individual chanter. 

Sebastian turns and sets his hand over his heart, looking out over the Chantry once more before finally making his way down the stairs to disappear behind the altar. Fenris closes his book, and he and Hawke share a glance before standing. Her legs and back are stiff, and part of her tells herself that she is no better than the nobility she derides, but at the same time there is only one person that she is here to see. If she is seen by others, it is more a hassle than a necessity.

The cool evening air hits her full in the face when they emerge from the Chantry. Nobles are still crowded like sheep around the doors and out into the square as if at a midnight garden party, all of them wearing an air of carefully calculated nonchalance as they hope for an opportunity to catch the Prince on his way back to the Keep. Hawke sighs and shoulders through them, mumbling apologies as she goes, making room for Fenris to follow her, not trusting the nobles to move otherwise, uniform or no. The majority of them are welcome to the Keep whenever they wish, but a visit with the Prince there does not offer the same social currency as being seen worthy of his time after a day in the Chantry.

She glances back over her shoulder as she and Fenris wander from the crowd to linger near a small, unassuming door just around the corner of the building, watching the nobles mingle amongst themselves, sighing and looking up at the sky, put out by the inconvenience of Sebastian’s not appearing so that they can garner favor. They disperse slowly, and she hears one or two of them express disappointment at Sebastian’s lack of consideration for them, that he should leave them waiting, as if they had an appointment to meet with him and were not hanging around like vultures. 

Sebastian mentioned the separate entrance when he’d told them he’d be attending. It’s used more for deliveries and meetings as it opens to a staircase that leads the basement, perfect for a quiet escape at the end of a long day.

Hawke sees the blonde head of a Chantry Sister pop out of an open upper window and then disappear, and she smiles to herself. Whether it was Sebastian’s suggestion or not, she’s glad to see that someone is keeping an eye out to make sure that his walk home is as peaceful as possible.

Sebastian is exultant when he finally appears a moment later, the door swinging wide in front of him. His hair is wilted after a day in the warmth of the Chantry and hangs in soft and shaggy locks over his ears and temples, but his eyes and his smile are still bright enough to shine in the moonlit square outside the Chantry. The sash from his robes is slung over his shoulder, letting the long grey-brown overcoat fall loosely around his body, and when he moves there’s a grace to it that Hawke hasn’t seen in a while. Being Prince is much more demanding than being a Brother, but for today, the Maker has lifted some of that weight from him, and it’s a sight to see.

He rushes towards them, catching Hawke by the waist and lifting her as he spins in a circle. “My beautiful friends! I am so glad to see you both! You shine with the Light of the Maker, thank you for joining me today.”

She’s helpless to stop it, and wouldn’t want to if she could, more than glad to be swept along with him in the afterglow of a day spent doing something he so clearly loves. It’s written in the freedom of his laughter, the ease with which he touches her, and the affection she sees in his eyes as he lowers her gently back to the ground, hands lingering on her sides. He’s beautiful, and Hawke flashes back to her earlier thoughts, that this too can be a manifestation of the Maker’s Light, to see it in the heart and eyes of another person. There is love in the Maker’s Light.

Sebastian slides his hands around her waist and pulls her close in an embrace, resting his chin on her shoulder. The smell of wax from the candles lingers in his hair and mixes with the warm scent of him and his clothing. Something in it reminds her of the Chantry in Lothering, and she closes her eyes to breathe it in, warm and familiar, like a home.

He pulls away slowly, still smiling at both of them, and sways a little where he stands. Fenris takes a step forward, but Sebastian waves him off. “I’m only hungry. I’ve had water but nothing else all day, and am very much looking forward to something to eat back at the Keep.”

Fenris jerks his head back in that direction, and Sebastian and Hawke nod in response. They set off without another word towards the Keep, and Sebastian’s hand is still overwarm when he locks his fingers with hers.

“Were you here long today?” He asks, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye before looking to Fenris as well. “I thought I saw you, up on the balcony, but I wasn’t sure. Seeing you now, in that dress, though.” He nods to himself, glancing down as he smiles, and heat blossoms on Hawke’s cheeks. “It was you I saw, and you were there every time I looked.”

“We were there a while,” she replies. She’s hungry as well, but it was worth the wait, to spend a day washed in light and sound, sinking into her own thoughts surrounded by souls filled with love. To see him come out of the Chantry vibrant and glowing, renewed, was worth a day of watching nobles nod off, worth arguing with Templars, worth hunger and thirst and aching muscles.

“It appeared very well attended,” Sebastian remarks. There’s irony in his voice, but it’s tempered with happiness. If he can use his popularity to bring the Maker’s Light to more souls, then he’s done a good day’s work.

Hawke nods, biting down on her own grin. “Nobles with souls like new sovereigns, all of them. You just missed the last of them.”

Sebastian sighs. “I was afraid of that. I asked the Sisters to keep an eye out, that I might be able to sneak away unnoticed and return home without interruption.” He turns to look at her and squeezes her hand. “I am glad  _ you  _ waited, though. Both of you,” he adds, swiveling to address Fenris. “It’s good to see that you went along as well, Fenris, and you brought your copy of the Chant with you.”

Fenris hums an affirmative and nods, but doesn’t turn around to reply. Hawke suspects he’s keeping watch for stragglers who might want a word. It’s sweet, that he would worry about such things, but she also knows that Fenris’ faith is a private thing for him, and Hawke is willing to accept that that is a conversation she is not welcome to be a part of. Even if there was a sense that something was settled between them this morning, it is only one step on a path that needs to be walked for them to truly see eye to eye.

They make their way slowly up the last set of stairs to the Keep. The rest of Sebastian’s life awaits him there, awaits all of them. Meetings and duties and politics, as well as Maresa, Neriah, and Delphine, who arrived after Sebastian left but before Hawke managed to get away. She’s still not certain that inviting her to live in the Keep is a good idea, but she is proud of Sebastian for offering, proud of the size of his heart and his faith in the goodness of people. It is one more thing about him that she loves, and while these new members of his family will no doubt change some things going forward, they can not take her love from her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! It really means a lot to me to see what people think of this story, and while I know I don't always keep up at replies, know that I read every comment and always want to respond. Sometimes I just need to find the words. 
> 
> Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	24. Business as Usual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian meets with Seneschal Granger and a couple of his most trusted advisors.

Golden, late afternoon sunlight cuts long, thin rectangles on the floor and the corner of Sebastian’s desk where it’s centered between the windows. The light stops just short of Fenris where he sits in a cushioned armchair in front of the desk, feet planted wide and elbows resting on his knees. His guard uniform is modified, more how Sebastian is used to seeing him, bare feet on the woven carpet that covers the stone floor, his hands hidden by gauntlets reminiscent of claws. His longsword rests against the back of the chair; even angled, it is still long enough that Sebastian can see the intricately designed pommel, Starkhaven’s heraldry stamped into the bottom.

“And there was an incident at the docks as well, an argument over ownership of a net which escalated. “ Fenris sighs and looks away from Sebastian to the others in the room, rolling his shoulders. “I apologize. I am unaccustomed to having an audience.”

Merrill is sitting on the other side of the room, having managed to curl up in the narrow wooden armchair and make her pose look comfortable, feet tucked underneath her and her head pillowed on her back of the chair. She leans out to look past Seneschal Granger, who is watching Fenris with unfocused eyes betraying his mild interest. He turns to look at Merrill when she speaks, but his expression doesn’t change.

“Oh, Fenris, please continue,” Merrill says, untucking her arm from around her body to wave a hand at him. She is also barefoot, her feet and lower legs wrapped in dark cloth that leaves her toes and heels visible. It matches the belt around her waist, a contrast to her undyed linen tunic and leather leggings. “I don’t get to spend as much time by the water as I’d like. It seems like I miss all sorts of exciting things.”

Sebastian sets down his quill and glances up at her, unable to hide his confusion. The meeting has been going for some time now, and while part of him hopes that he is simply tired and heard her incorrectly, the better part of him knows he did not. “Merrill,” he prompts, “the alienage is on the water. You live on a boat.” 

“Oh, I know, Seb--Your Highness.” She gives Granger a nervous glance, but Sebastian only waves for her to continue. “And it’s lovely, what they’ve done with it. There’s steps right down to the river and all that! It’s not the same as as docks in Kirkwall, though.” Her voice turns softer and somewhat thoughtful as she continues, looking away from Fenris and Sebastian both. “It’s so quiet, and it smells better. Plus, when you live on the water, you don’t tend to think of it as water the same way. I can walk from my house all the way here without getting wet unless I fall in, but that hasn’t happened since the first week.”

“Perhaps it would be better if I came back at some other time.” Fenris rushes to cut Merrill off. He is already starting to stand when he speaks, and again Sebastian waves. All of this would be easier without the Seneschal present, but for all their sakes, Sebastian needs the others to get used to the idea of talking to and dealing with him. He cares for his friends and enjoys spending time with them, but he also aware that Granger’s relationship with them is all but nonexistent, and too often the lines between the business of Starkhaven and the pleasure of their company are erased. He hopes that this meeting will help with that, but so far it’s been a lot of Granger listening silently, with Sebastian asking all the questions, in large part due to Fenris’ reticence in the presence of others. The weekly guard report is otherwise usually conducted between the two of them alone, a chance for Fenris to practice writing while he gives the report. With Merrill and the Seneschal present, however, Sebastian is transcribing the report himself. 

“Forgive us, Fenris. We didn’t mean to interrupt you.” Sebastian waits while Fenris settles back into his chair. “Merrill asked me recently how things are going with the elven recruits to the City Guard, and I thought it best that she hear from you directly.”

Merrill leans over so far that her chair creaks, and she nods enthusiastically. “It’s been very interesting. I’m so glad to hear that they’re working out well.”

And indeed they seem to be, from everything that Sebastian hears from Fenris, the other recruits, and even the nobility that bring it up. The decision to allow elves to serve in the City Guard was met with less opinionated discussion than was his reasoning behind it. Allowing elves to serve would make their presence on the streets of the city that much more ubiquitous, but this time in a position of respect and even some power. It is the first step to integrating them into the city properly. The alienage will remain as a place for those elves who do not wish to move in among the humans, somewhere they can go to be among themselves if they choose, to work and trade, participate in ceremonies and gatherings. 

It will be a slow process and not without pitfalls and problems, but this first step with the City Guard has proven promising. Fenris’ choices among the recruits continue to show themselves both capable and competent, as well as kind and proud of the city they live in. Starkhaven’s elves are a part of the Starkhaven, and Sebastian would see to it that everyone involved feels that way about them, humans and elves alike.

That includes the three sitting in the room with him now, and if they are any indication, then the humans will struggle with the changes far more than the elves. 

“I also don’t believe either of you and Seneschal Granger have been properly introduced yet,” Sebastian says, nodding from Fenris to the man sitting beside him to Merrill and back. 

“We’ve met often enough,” Fenris replies, he and Granger wearing matching sneers as they look away from each other. Granger’s is somewhat hidden behind his mustache and his fingers steepled in front of his face, but Fenris makes no move to hide his.

That so much time has passed without formal introductions is due almost entirely to Seneschal Granger planning it that way. He is polite and obedient towards Sebastian in nearly all things, but has shown a singular ability when it comes to sidestepping anything having to do with meeting elves. He is more than happy to note their paid taxes, but has yet to follow Sebastian to the alienage, or take a meeting with the Ambassador of the Captain of the Guard. Today’s meeting only happened because Sebastian brought him to the office himself. 

“We haven’t!” Merrill tries to lean to offer her hand to him, but the space between the chairs is too wide, and Granger makes no effort at all to meet her. She looks from her hand to Granger to Sebastian and back as if suddenly unsure about the gesture. Sebastian clears his throat, and Granger leans to take her hand, giving Sebastian a cool glance as he does so.

“A pleasure to meet you, Lady Ambassador. I am Seneschal Granger. This means that I speak for His Highness when he is unavailable.”

Merrill shakes his hand before leaning back in her chair again. She narrows her eyes as she looks Granger over in light of this new information. “Is that what a Seneschal does?” She hums. “We met one of those in Kirkwall. It seemed like all he did was be rude to Hawke and act like he was better than all of us because he could keep people from seeing the Viscount. I’m sure you won’t be like that, though. Speaking for Sebastian means knowing who his friends are, and listening to them.” 

Her tone is light, but in her eyes it’s clear that she knows full well what she’s talking about, and Granger shifts uncomfortably in his chair as he comes to the same realization. It is not the first time Sebastian is reminded that Merrill’s path before they met would have led her to lead her clan in time. She was raised to carry authority and responsibility, and it shows in the way she’s sized Granger up so neatly. It is a rare sight to see the Seneschal struck speechless, his mustache twitching as he tries and fails to find a reply.

Sebastian sighs inwardly, but lets it go for the moment. If Granger has nothing to say for himself, then Sebastian is not about to rise to his defense against Merrill. 

He picks up the quill again, noting with surprise how much more content Fenris looks after Merrill’s comment to Granger. “Now then, what happened at the docks?”

The rest of the guard report comes without incident or interruptions beyond Merrill’s small sounds of interest and excitement at the stories of pickpockets and the attempted theft of a horse. Sebastian writes it all down, hearing Fenris pause when he gets too far ahead for Sebastian to keep up. Once or twice he thinks he hears Fenris make a soft noise in protest when Sebastian chooses a different word than the one he himself spoke, and he smiles to himself to know that Fenris’ reading has come so far that he can read script upside down as it’s being written.

“Thank you, Fenris.” Sebastian sets the quill back in its holder and stoppers the ink bottle, leaving the last pages out on his table to dry while they talk. He flexes his hand, glad and frustrated at the burn in his muscles from such vigorous writing. He’s not had the time for writing that he did in the Chantry, enjoying transcribing notes from Mother Elthina, or writing and rewriting passages from the Chant as a form of contemplation. After the discovery of the journals from his youth, he has no interest in keeping his thoughts in written form, however, and so he rarely spends time with quill and paper. 

The atmosphere in the room lightened during the end of Fenris’ report, to the degree that even Granger chuckled as Fenris described how two human guards failed to capture the horse, only to have an Elven guard--a former farmhand--put them to shame with a lasso, a carrot, and a few soft words. They are all more relaxed in their postures now, with a new sort of respect in Granger’s expression as he looks over the Guard-Captain.

“Now, then.” Sebastian sits back in his own chair and folds his hands. “Is there anything else that we need to discuss?”

Merrill shakes her head, having shifted so that she’s sitting with one foot on the floor and the other on the edge of the chair, her knee hugged close to her chest. Fenris mumbles a no, but Granger heaves a sigh when all eyes turn to him, and he runs a hand over his mustache. 

“Your Highness,” Granger starts, eyes darting from Sebastian to the other in the room and back, “I have once again been asked to bring you messages regarding the changes surrounding the city’s fish exports.”

Sebastian sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, almost feeling sorry for Granger. When the nobles want a favor, they are more than happy to walk into the Keep uninvited and spend the day in the throne room, but when they have complaints about a change, they send the Seneschal, as if to keep their own hands clean.

Merrill sets her leg down to sit straight in the chair and draws in a breath. “I wanted to talk to you about that as well--” Her eyes cut to the side when Granger clears his throat demonstratively. “I can wait.”

Sebastian gives her a thin smile and a small, grateful nod, then turns to Granger and motions for him to continue. That he’s chosen to broach the topic in a room with the two elves closest to the Prince is either arrogance or some sort of foolish hope that he will change his mind and suddenly start siding with the merchant brokers again, but either way, Sebastian wants to hear him out.

Granger nods a thank you and continues. “They feel that they are no longer being fairly compensated for the costs to their businesses and are quite concerned that they will not be able to continue as they are accustomed to without raising prices, which was forbidden by royal decree for the rest of the year.”

Granger adds the last with a dry tone just shy of accusatory. Sebastian recalls quite well the decree he wrote and signed and read aloud in the throne room, and he doesn’t doubt that Granger knows it. 

“They had hoped to discuss it with you after your day in the Chantry, but you were late in appearing, and they were forced to retire,” Granger adds, this time with a glance to Fenris.

The comment isn’t worth dignifying with a response, but Sebastian notes it to himself to keep in mind in the future. As both Chantry Brother and Prince, he is aware that the lines will often cross and blur between the roles, but a day spent in prayer and celebration was not a day that he intended to end by arguing taxation with men with more money than kindness, and once again he finds himself relieved that he chose to wait until the nobility scattered before greeting Hawke and Fenris. 

“I do believe we went over the arithmetic on this quite thoroughly, did we not?” Sebastian asks, returning to the subject at hand. “I’m not as good with numbers as Bartholomew was, but I do recall that meeting. I imagine the brokers do as well?”

Granger nods, and Sebastian fixes his gaze on him for long enough to see the corner of his mouth twitch in annoyance under his mustache. Let him fume. He may play the role of an unfortunate intermediary in this discussion, but he tried to dissuade Sebastian from the first, and that opinion clearly has not changed. 

Sebastian looks away, down to the top drawer on one side of his desk. He opens it while he talks, glancing from Granger to the papers inside and back. “In fact, just in case something like this came up, I kept the papers we used to work out that the changes in payment to the elves would not be so great as to mean that the exporters would no longer profit. Ah, yes, here it is.” He holds the paper up demonstratively, looking down his nose at it as he reads. “Now then. Right, if our math is correct--the math that we calculated together with them--then they should still be reaping sixteen percent profit for each barrel of fish sold. Do they mean that those numbers are no longer correct?”

It’s Granger’s turn to sigh, and to his credit he does look sheepish when he explains. “They’re actually getting eighteen percent now, Your Highness. It appears that one of the buyers trades with a clan of Dalish elves in Wycome, and they were so pleased to hear of the new trade relationship with the alienage that they paid more than necessary.”

Sebastian’s head falls to the side. “And they kept the extra for themselves?” He asks, incredulous. Granger nods, shrugging, and Sebastian swallows the wave of irritation that rises bitter at the back of his throat. The greed of men continues to shock him, and every time he must remind himself that he might have been like them, had he stayed in Starkhaven. He must try to guide them before he tries to punish them. “Tell them I want them all in this room in two days’ time. They are to bring their ledgers and a very good explanation why they think they are entitled to money that elves paid to be given to elves.”

There is little satisfaction to be found in watching Granger deflate in front of him, but Sebastian can not help but wonder what the Seneschal expected would happen when he brought up the request. If the brokers are being honest about their earnings, then there is still more than enough money coming in to keep them and their families in overwhelming comfort, while still paying the elves generously for their work and time. This too is a first step towards better integration; Sebastian will not wrest the trade from the hands of the men, but he did investigate the claim that Bralhen made, and found that it was a true: an old law that elves were not allowed to run their businesses. It was a law that he’d been glad to abolish, but the change will be slow to come.

“Was there something you wanted to add, Merrill?” Sebastian’s gaze swings from Granger to Merrill, who is staring at the Senescal with huge eyes and raised brows, her cheeks gone pink up to her ears. 

“I was going to tell you that they’re predicting a record year for the smokehouses,” she replies, bottled anger in the back of her voice to match her expression. “More fish than ever have been brought in by our fishers, and they’re looking to set up another building to accommodate it all.” She looks away from Granger and her expression softens somewhat, though Sebastian still finds himself nervous under the intensity of her gaze. “I’ll let the Hahren know to be here for the meeting. It seems it will be necessary.”

“Yes, thank you Merrill, I appreciate that.” Sebastian has had several productive meetings with Bralhen since his first visit to the alienage. The Hahren is a wise and compassionate man, patient with Sebastian’s many questions. The protectiveness that he displays in meeting at the Keep seemed at first incongruous with his willingness to let Sebastian meet with Maresa, but Sebastian understands better now how Bralhen seeks to guide and help his people while still allowing individuals to live their lives. It is inspiring in a way, and Sebastian is glad when he can take counsel with him, though this meeting with the brokers will more likely be a show of Bralhen’s endless patience and dagger-sharp wisdom.

Sebastian sets his hands on the desk and stands, and the others follow. “Thank you all for your time today. I hope we can do this again soon.”   


He looks at each of them in turn, but no one moves until he nods and gestures towards the door. These small formalities still elude him, even after months as Prince: adjourning meetings, calling to order, giving permission to speak. Navigating his power as Prince is one thing, using a look or a cough to still an argument or gain support across a table, but these rituals seem insignificant to him, and he is unsure how to rid himself and his rule of them.

Granger grumbles a thank you as he slips out the door, and Merrill lingers just long enough to ensure that she won’t find him in the hallways before saying goodbye and heading out. Fenris stays, folding his hands behind his back and waiting until Merrill is gone before speaking. 

“I wanted to thank you again for your assistance, Your Highness,” Fenris starts, but Sebastian only waves him off.

“It’s my pleasure to help,” he replies, collecting the papers from his desk and stacking them, tapping them to straighten the pile. “Your writing is coming along quite well, but I understand if you don’t feel ready to submit a weekly report that way in front of others. And it gives us a chance to meet and talk, even if today was more hectic than our usual briefings.”

Fenris glances back over his shoulder and frowns. “Will the Seneschal be joining us more often?”

Sebastian shrugs. “I’m considering it.” He understands Fenris’ frustration with Granger and doesn’t imagine that the two will ever be good friends, but for the sake of Starkhaven’s stability, it would be easiest if they could all work together, even when Sebastian isn’t in the room. “He is a part of this city’s leadership just as you and Merrill are, and he must accept that he will be working with the two of you.”

He moves out from behind the desk while he talks, pouring himself a glass of water from the copper pitcher on the low table by the window. A rune on the bottom keeps the water so cold that the handle of the pitcher makes his hand ache, but it’s worth it. Such meetings rarely leave him energized, and the room is warm and dry, heated by afternoon light and too many people in it at once.

Fenris’ armor creaks behind him, and Sebastian sighs. He knows without looking that his Guard-Captain is shuffling impatiently behind him, waiting for some more explicit permission to go than he’d given to Granger and Merrill, or hoping to discuss some aspect of the meeting without an audience.

“They are slavers, Your Highness.”

Sebastian’s shoulders droop at the familiar refrain. Reports of Tevinter slavers near the border reached Fenris even before they reached Sebastian. He gave his permission after assuring that the other leaders of the Guard would be staying, and had thought the issue closed. 

“Fenris, I could hardly stop you, nor do I want to. Aren’t you set to leave in the morning?” He turns his head but still doesn’t move fully to face him. He means the question not as chastisement, but as an expression of his own confusion, almost exasperation. This subject has been discussed and settled, so Fenris’ return to it seems unnecessary. “I’ve already told you this. Take some men and go with my blessing, but please be careful.”

Sebastian expects that to be the end of it, but there is no sound of Fenris retreating. He has no desire to keep Fenris from going, but perhaps there is something else that his Guard-Captain seeks other than the permission he’s already been granted. It’s in his voice and in things he fails to say when they discuss it. Fenris has Sebastian’s full support, and he hopes he’s made that clear.

“May I--” Fenris clears his throat softly as if to try again. “May I have it? Your blessing?”

The request is so unexpected as to render Sebastian momentarily speechless. He runs a hand over his face and takes his time setting his glass back on the tray, then turns to look at his friend.

Fenris is staring back at him with bright eyes under furrowed brows, and he looks down and away as soon as Sebastian meets his gaze. He shifts his weight, flexing the toes of one foot, and pushes a gauntleted hand back through his hair.

Sebastian pulls in a slow breath through his nose, tilting his chin up as he does so. “Kneel, Guard-Captain.” He nods as he gives the order. 

There is no smile on Fenris’ lips, but there is one in his eyes when he looks to Sebastian again, a sort of relief that flickers there as he drops to one knee, sunlight catching and bouncing on the angles on his armor and the silver embroidery on his coat. He falls into shadow when Sebastian moves to stand before him, one arm outstretched, his hand close to Fenris but not touching.

“Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter,” Sebastian begins, his voice low and reverent, with more intent behind the words than he has felt recently. He still prays for his friends at night, for their safety and happiness, for the wisdom and patience to protect them as well as the city they’ve come to live in. None of them have asked for it, nor would they ever need to, but Sebastian is nonetheless honored by Fenris’ trust in him, that he would want this before leaving on his mission. It is one thing to sing the Chant with all of Starkhaven as an audience, but this is a different sort of honor to be asked something so important of one whose faith is such a private thing. “Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.”

“In their blood the Maker’s will is written,” Fenris finishes, flicking his eyes up to look at Sebastian when he lets the phrase fade unspoken. He means only to bless Fenris, not to predict bloodshed for any of their number while they are away at the northern borders.

“In this case, I hope not, my friend.” He offers Fenris a smile and is glad to see it returned.

Fenris rises to his feet again and holds out his hand to Sebastian. The gesture is yet another unlooked-for request on Fenris’ part, and it takes Fenris nodding at him for Sebastian to reach out and grasp his forearm. Fenris returns the greeting, and Sebastian sets his other hand on Fenris’ shoulder.

“Walk in the Maker’s Light, Fenris. I wish you success, and I look forward to your return.”

The nod that Fenris gives him is closer to a bow, and Sebastian sees something like satisfaction move across his face as he gives Sebastian’s arm a shake, then lets go. “And I as well, your Highness.”

They make their way out of the room together and down the stairs, both of them pausing at the bottom. Sebastian turns left to go towards the kitchens, hesitating when Fenris doesn’t follow.

“I should… pack, and prepare for our departure at dawn.” He nods in the opposite direction, towards an exit that will lead him closer to the guards’ barracks, as well as take him on a path not visible from the gardens.

Sebastian grins and shakes his head. “You’re sure you’re not going just to get a few days’ respite from Neriah?” Her infatuation with Fenris has only increased with time, with both of them fielding questions about becoming a member of the City Guard, working in the guardhouse, patrolling with the Guard. 

Fenris sighs and shakes his head. The issue of encroaching slavers is not one that Sebastian means to make light of, and he hopes and believes that Fenris understands that. 

“Until I return, Your Highness.” Fenris sets one arm on his back and the other at his waist, bending over it in a crisp bow before turning and setting off. Sebastian watches him go until he disappears around a corner. He offers a quick, silent prayer to the Maker to protect them all, to send the slavers back to Tevinter with no bloodshed if possible, as he makes his way to the back of the Keep to the kitchens.

The door stands ajar, and he can hear conversation coming from outside. Through the window, he sees Delphine and Maresa sitting together on one of the benches. Maresa was also invited to the meeting, but declined politely, saying that she had little interest in the politics of the city on that level. There’d been something in her voice when she suggested that he invite Hawke instead that left him feeling as if he’d missed a beat, but given the subjects that they would be discussing, he’d thought it best to save the invitation for another time. Judging from the dark expression she wears, however, Sebastian can’t help but wonder if Maresa wouldn’t rather have gone to the meeting than found herself outside with Delphine.

“I still have to insist that I do not understand,” Delphine sighs as Sebastian steps out into the fading warmth of the day. “Even if my hair is less grey than yours, I would not cut it so short as this!” She reaches out with her hand and Maresa leans back, ducking out of the way.

“My hair was something that I kept for other people,” she explains, and Sebastian pauses to listen. Delphine’s attention moves at once from Maresa to him, but Maresa continues her explanation with the same even temper that he’s seen time after time since she came to the Keep. “It was beautiful, and I kept it beautiful so that I could use it to make money. When I stopped needing it to make money, the first thing I did was cut it off. Working in the bar instead, I could finally look how I wanted, not how I thought other people wanted me to look.”

Something in the statement catches Delphine’s attention, and she swings back to look at Maresa, cool eyes flitting over her face and form as she puckers her thin lips and shakes her head. “You could have been beautiful for you,” she replies. “At the very least, it would have covered your ears.”

Maresa meets Sebastian’s gaze as she stands with surprising speed, leaving him taking a step back to give her space. “If you’ll excuse me,” Maresa offers, “I think it’s best I go inside before I catch a chill.” She pulls her loose shawl tight around her shoulders demonstratively, arching her brows at Sebastian before she goes. 

Sebastian sighs. “Delphine, there is no reason why Maresa should want to--”

His attempt to explain to her is cut short when Delphine also rises to her feet, coming to Sebastian’s side with one long stride and looping her arm through his. His skin crawls inside his coat as she starts to walk, hauling him along with more strength than he looked for in her frail form.

“It is important that people understand their place, Basti.” He does what he can to stop their forward progress as she steers them towards the canopy made by the trees over the path up the middle of the garden. “Maresa, she seems like a good woman, but elves must think of their station, of where they belong. As must people such as you and I,” she purrs, and Sebastian is forced to accept that she is all but rubbing his arm on the side of her chest. “I think my place could be here, with you, under these trees. It is so romantic.”

He pulls at his arm and her hold on him tightens like some sort of strange trap, and for a moment he is concerned that he might hurt her as he sets his other hand on her arm to hold her while he frees himself, taking a staggering step away. It is not fear so much as frustration that rises in his throat when she follows, continuing to willfully ignore the boundaries that he strives to demonstrate.

“Sebastian!” Neriah’s voice is a welcome reprieve. It does nothing to keep Delphine from sighing breathlessly and fanning her lashes at him while she stands as close as possible, but Sebastian turns away from her to greet his daughter as she runs up to him, bow in hand. 

“It is true that Fenris is leaving tomorrow?” She stares up at him with wide, pleading eyes and furrowed brows, gasping when Sebastian nods.

“He’ll be away at the northern borders for some time, I’m afraid, but he’s taking good men with him, and they’re doing important work.” The idea that Tevinter slavers are so bold as to venture into the Marches at all is aggravating enough, and Sebastian would prefer not to speak of it aloud more than necessary. There is also the matter of what Delphine would think, and he is in no mood for more of her opinions, especially not in the presence of Neriah, who doesn’t yet have her mother’s temperance and patience with those who would look down on elves.

“I didn’t see you out here, though, or else I would have said hello,” he continues, eager to turn the conversation away from Fenris and his journey. Neriah is remarkably single-minded, and her mind is currently filled with little that doesn’t have to do with the handsome white-haired Guard-Captain and how best to win his affections; he considers ruefully that Delphine would be a perfect cautionary tale for the girl.

“Hawke was helping with my archery,” Neriah explains. “We were almost done, but do you think that you could help me tomorrow? She mentioned something about breathing and contemplation, said that you taught it to her.”

That he did, and he nods in silent agreement, startled to hear that Hawke is also in the gardens. Neriah continues to talk, but he barely listens as he turns from side to side to look, only to see Hawke standing in the doorway to the kitchen, bow in one hand, a handful of arrows in the other. He meets her eyes and sees how she looks back at him, Delphine on one side and Neriah on the other, so distracted by them and Maresa that he’d failed to see her collecting arrows in the far corner of the green space. He hadn’t said so much as a word to her, all his attention on the others. 

Hawke watches him for a beat, her expression unreadable and carved with deep shadows as she turns away and vanishes into the growing darkness inside the Keep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! It really means a lot to me to see what people think of this story, and while I know I don't always keep up at replies, know that I read every comment and always want to respond. Sometimes I just need to find the words. 
> 
> Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	25. Conclave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Word of the explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes reaches Starkhaven, throwing Hawke into despair that Sebastian is unsure how to help her with.

The mattress dips when Sebastian settles onto the far side of the bed, but if Hawke knows he’s there at all then she makes no move to acknowledge it, her back turned to him and to the door. Canut lifts his head only to lower it again, his dark eyes fixed on Hawke’s figure. For a moment Sebastian only sits and watches her, eyes following the curve of her body where she’s curled up on the bed - the soft slope of her hip down to her waist, the line of her side where it disappears under a blanket of blonde hair. 

Sebastian leans closer, the fingers of his outstretched hand curling and uncurling where he hovers over her, uncertain if his touch is welcome, or even wanted. Carefully, he brushes his fingertips along her hairline, taking in the softness and warmth of her skin, and the dampness in her hair where he leads it away from her face to tuck it back behind her ear. He can see her better now, see the redness around her eyes and the streak on her cheekbone where her hair trailed through fallen tears when he moved it.

Hazy white sunlight filters into the room through lace curtains. It’s unfair in Sebastian’s eyes that the days after the explosion at the conclave in Haven should dawn so bright and brilliant, as if the Maker has no regard for the losses His children are suffering in Thedas. The light softens the edges of shadows and falls as a halo around Hawke, catching in her tears to make them shine on her skin. Her bare feet stick out from below the edge of the thin blanket draped over her legs, likely from when Bethany came to see her earlier in the day, and the rest of her is covered with a cream-colored nightshirt. 

Her shake of her head at his touch is reflexive, automatic, and Sebastian starts to pull away, but Hawke reaches up without looking; when she finds him, she laces their fingers together, settling both their hands on her shoulder as if inviting him to stay. Her hand is cold, and he adjusts his grip to hold her fingers instead, brushing his thumb over the back of her knuckles. She sniffs a breath in and shifts her head a little more, still not looking at him but seeming to angle herself so that he’s in her line of vision. The idea soothes some of his fear of coming in to see her, and he scoots a little closer on the bed, one leg tucked up under his body. She squeezes his hand in response, and relief flows through him.

To ask how she is would be foolish, even though he wants little more than to know what’s going on inside her head, and what he can do to soothe the storm that rages there. It’s been two days since they received the news of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, two days since Hawke had eaten, or slept, or spoken more than Varric’s name. They know nothing yet of his fate, if he was at the Conclave with the Right Hand of the Divine when an explosion ripped open the sky and shattered the temple, killing everyone inside. Sebastian sent ravens as soon as he heard, but he cannot imagine the chaos that must reign in and around Haven, and as much as it frustrates him, he continues to ask the Maker for patience for himself as they wait for answers.

News of the explosion drew Starkhaven to a halt, with businesses closed and the streets emptied of any not making their way to or from the Chantry. Outside the Keep the bells continue to peal in a slow, solemn rhythm, a call to all those touched by the Maker’s Light to mourn their beloved Divine Justinia and all those killed at the Conclave that she called in order to broker peace between the warring mages and Templars. Sebastian sent a note that he would come to the Chantry at his earliest convenience, but seeing Hawke in this state, there is no way that he is leaving her side. 

He knows that there is a storm in Hawke’s mind because there is one in his as well. The Temple was a Chantry building, and the Divine their leader. Even from such a distance, the explosion sent them all back - to Kirkwall and the staircase to Hightown, to red light in the sky and stone raining down on the city, and a man with the face of a friend ranting like a madman. 

_ There can be no half measures _ , Anders warned them, and what larger measure could there be than this? Sebastian watched him die, watched Hawke lower his body to the ground, one last kiss before she closed his eyes and left her knife in his chest. There was no time then to mourn for those who wished to mourn him, no time to confirm that the blow had killed him. In the time since Sebastian has come to understand how little he knows of spirits and demons and the way that they inhabit a body. He has not asked yet, neither Bethany nor Merrill, if a man with a spirit inside him can survive being stabbed by a blade, but the thought lingers in his mind. If this spirit of Justice became Vengeance as Anders said, would he seek revenge on the woman who meant to end his life, or would his goals be so broad now that Hawke would not be a consideration? 

These thoughts have dogged him since they first heard of the disaster, and yet in some way he can not help but feel that whether Anders returns or not, his goal is the same. Sebastian will do whatever is necessary to keep Hawke safe from anyone who tries to harm her. Today, here and now, that means staying by her side and holding her hand. 

“It’s going to be all right, Apadiel.” He reaches across with his other hand and smoothes her hair again, bringing his hand to settle on his knee. “I am sure Varric will be fine, and a message will come soon.”

Hawke is shaking her head even as he speaks. “This is my fault,” she whispers. Her voice is hoarse from disuse, and it aches in his chest to hear it. “He went to protect me, to keep me safe when the Seekers came for me, and now…”

She draws a ragged breath and curls in deeper on herself, pulling her hand from his grasp as she turns over on the bed so that she’s facing him, so close that she all but wraps around his knee. She tries to cover her face with her arms, but he retrieves her hand, taking it in both of his, pressing circles into her skin with his thumbs. His reassurances ring hollow and he knows it, but he has little else to offer her until they have real news from Haven, and he must believe that what he says is true, for his sake, for Varric’s, and for hers as well. 

“Varric is smart and resourceful,” he continues, sweeping his thumb over the soft skin of her hand. She is slowly warming under his touch, and he is glad to feel it. “He’s one of the toughest men I’ve ever met. And he loves you, Hawke. He wanted to do this for you. You couldn’t have stopped him.” Sebastian and Varric spoke of Varric’s leaving even before the Seekers arrived, and it was always known that sooner or later, he would return to Kirkwall. That he went with the Seekers to the Conclave was more of a surprise, but it put distance between Lady Cassandra and Hawke, which was what Varric wanted.

Hawke’s breathing evens out and she pillows her head on her arm, and something cracks inside Sebastian to see how she doesn’t look at him, but looks through him, her gaze on something far distant from both of them. He’s reminded of the night they’d come to Starkhaven, how she’d been haunted by ghosts old and new. They are in the room with them now, reminders of all those that loved Hawke, but could not be saved by her.

“I can’t keep losing people, Sebastian. I’m not strong enough. It’s better if it’s just--” She pulls in a sharp breath and cuts off the thought before Sebastian can protest. “People keep dying in my place.”

Cold blossoms in his stomach and spreads through him like frost on a window at her words. “No one is dying.” He runs a hand from her shoulder down her arm and up again. “No one, Apadiel.”

“The Divine died.” She hiccups, and when she looks up at him her gaze is bright and focused, all of it on him, but he can not relish the attention, not when he sees the panic behind it. “And Margot,” she whispers, as if it’s the first time she’s realized. “Oh, Maker. Sebastian. I’m so sorry. You must be--”

He shakes his head slowly, keeping eye contact with her. “It’s all right.” He’s surprised to find some truth in the words. Divine Justinia was the head of the Chantry, but she was a figurehead, distant and foreign and unknowable, handing out decrees and deciding on matters of such breadth as to seem more than a single person at times. He mourns her death as well as the death of Revered Mother Margot, and fears for the future of the Chantry in the face of this, but it is a duller ache, not like the razor-sharp loss he’d felt when Elthina was taken to the Maker’s side in Kirkwall. He and Margot were not so close; while their respect was mutual, it was also sometimes grudging at best. 

Hawke tries to pull her hand from his grip, but when he doesn’t release her, she tries to push instead, her hand and both of his at once. “You should go to the Chantry,” she urges, furrowing her brow when he doesn’t move under her weak attempts to send him away. “You’re the Prince, they need you. Your family will need you.”

“I told them I will come when I can.” His heart breaks even as he is amazed by her selflessness. “I am where I need to be right now.”

“Sebastian--”

“I’m not leaving you.” He doesn’t mean the words to come out as harshly as they do, but he will broach no argument in this. Hawke needs him, even if she won’t allow herself to admit it. “They can wait,” he offers, softer. “They will wait, all of them.”

They fall into silence together, Hawke’s occasional sniffles the only intrusive sound in the room. He watches her face, even as he gives all his conscious attention to her hand. He rubs circles into the skin and muscles on the back, marvelling at the enduring smoothness of her skin, how rough his own callused fingers seem in comparison. He takes each of her fingers in turn and massages them, running his hands up to her wrists, willing her to relax her grip on him. Looking past her arm, he sees the lines of tension fade in her brow until her eyes start to fall closed. She blinks slowly, looking up at him from under her lashes. 

“Can we?” Her voice is thick and soft with sleep, and she stops and tries again. “Will you help me pray, Sebastian?”

The request is unexpected. He knows that Hawke believes in the Maker and follows the Chant, but she has never been one to spend time in the Chantry in prayer or contemplation as far as he knows. “Of course, Hawke. Padi.” That she would ask this of him is humbling, and his mind starts immediately searching for the right words to help her, so much so that he stumbles on her name. 

“I want to pray for the Divine, for the others. And I want--” She squeezes her eyes closed, and her jaw trembles. “I need Him to help Varric. Please.”

Part of his training at the Chantry included sitting with lost souls and guiding them through prayer. Some worried that they were asking for things they were not allowed. Some were concerned that they didn’t know the proper words, that they could only reach the Maker through the Chant. This wasn’t true; any words spoken honestly and meant honestly would reach the Maker, but that did not guarantee that every prayer would be granted, or at least not as the asker desired. This was one of the harder things to explain to those most in need of an answered prayer, that the Maker works in ways mere men cannot understand. He hopes that no such deeper understanding will be needed for Hawke, however, that Varric is safe and that news will arrive soon.

“Maker, my enemies are abundant.” The words catch in Sebastian’s throat and he stops, swallowing down the bitter taste on his tongue. It is doubtless already understood that he will lead the Chant in mourning the Divine in Starkhaven, be forced to perform as Prince and leader in Margot’s absence, as though he had not also suffered a loss. Here however, in the cool darkness of the bedroom, he allows himself to feel, and to grieve. 

Hawke shifts on the bed, pushing herself up to sit facing him, her legs folded under the blanket and her hands in his, settled in his lap. She squeezes his thumbs, then lets go in a subtle embrace. He is not sure that he could bear anything more solid in his current state. Even the toll of the bells from outside jars him and threatens to shake him to pieces. The Chantry is a keystone in his life, a source of stability against which he has been able to lean and within which he has found strength. 

When the Circles severed their ties and the mages left the cities, Sebastian watched the events with concern. Starkhaven’s Circle was only newly re-established, and while Bethany did what she could to try to calm the mages’ fears, there was little to keep them in the city. When the Templars broke with the Chantry to openly hunt apostates, Sebastian prayed to the Maker to guide them to temperance, to allow all sides to find another way to end the conflict than blood and extermination. 

And now this, the foundations of his faith rocked as the Temple of Sacred Ashes lies in ruins, and the Divine is dead. The weight of it presses on his chest, and he fights to breathe as all of it fills his mind at once. Should not the Prince of a great city be able to see a way to peace? Would his father and brothers have been able to do what he cannot, and offer guidance to end this war?

“Many are those who rise up against me,” Hawke whispers, pausing, waiting for him to join her. Her voice is warm and trembling, but it is enough for him to hear the flicker of encouragement in it, a spark of the fire that he knows still burns within her. He grasps after it like a tether and holds fast, allowing her and the words to ground him. She asked for the prayer, but Sebastian finds he needs it as much as she does.

“But my faith sustains me.” He squeezes her hands and they continue together. “I shall not fear the legion.”

Their voices blend between them, each with a slightly different melody, part of the endless small variations in the Chant that come from geography and time and language. Her song is high and vibrant, like some bright and beautiful bird in spring. Sebastian’s voice has long been a point of pride for him, one of the few things that he was openly complimented on in the Kirkwall Chantry, but now he sings not to impress, but to comfort and soothe, and together their song is strong, but soft. It unfurls to fill the space around them on the bed, but is not so wide that it fills the room, instead lifting up to the low ceiling, through the floors above towards the sky.

Sebastian looks down at her hands, at his where he holds her. He cannot see that he is trembling, but he feels it nonetheless, in his fingers and his arms, in his voice and in the single tear that shudders and rolls down his cheek, leaving his vision clear.

They move through all of the Prayers for the Despairing together, praising the Maker, asking Him for Light, for love and guidance for those souls that have gone to join Him. Some verses, Sebastian sings alone, Hawke holding his hands as she listens, only to join him again when she’s recovered her voice. The words serve to calm and guide him as they have for so many years now, bringing Sebastian back to himself when he finds he is spread thin. His body settles again around his soul, stilling and reinforcing itself as his breathing and heartbeat fall in time with the Chant. 

He’s led the Chant before the faithful in Kirkwall as well as Starkhaven, and every time is different, and so here too, with Hawke, one soul bolstering another, and Sebastian finds his own strength is renewed through his mission to help her. 

“Rest at the Maker’s right hand, and be forgiven,” they conclude, the words drifting out into the silence around them.

“And please--” Hawke’s voice breaks, and Sebastian lifts his head to look at her. He’d concentrated on her hands or closed his eyes during their prayer, wanting to give her space for her own contemplation. She is sitting with her head tilted back, and he watches the line of her throat as she swallows, again, forcing the pain down so that the words can make their way past it.

“Please bring Varric back to me,” she begs, her tone turning with a need that she’d restrained during the Chant. “I don’t know that I have anything that I can offer You, that You would want from me, that I could give You to save him.” She shakes her head. “I would have died without him. The world is better with him in it. Please.” 

Sebastian hears panic rising in her voice. What starts as a whisper grows in desperate frustration, and her grip on his hands tightens. He watches the rapid rise and fall of her chest, unsure if he should intervene.

“It should have been me,” she groans. “Maker, please, if You must take someone--”

“Apadiel.” He tugs at her hands and all of her sways, her head tipping forward as if she has no control over it. She frowns when she meets his eyes, and tries to look away, but he reaches out to cup her cheek, brushing away fallen tears with his thumb and holding her in place so that he can watch her eyes, wide and fearful as a doe’s.

“A Champion’s gotta be worth  _ something _ , right? What use am I otherwise?” Her voice cracks, and she presses her lips together, but it doesn’t stop them from shaking, or her eyes from searching his for an answer he can not give her. The Maker doesn’t assign worth that way.

He knows that she knows that that’s not how it works, but it breaks his heart nonetheless to hear her try. He recognizes it from so many grieving souls, begging to take the place of a lost love, a child, or a family member, and it’s too easy for him to imagine her making this same offer on her knees beside the body of an ogre, or kneeling with her mother in her arms in a filthy, musty Darktown lair surrounded by ash and ozone and the rancid stink of decay.

“You are worth everything,” he whispers, pulling her in to rest their foreheads against each other. “You are so important to so many people, Apadiel, including Varric. I would not hear you offer yourself so freely in exchange.” She tries to pull away, and he knows that she will protest and try to close off this wounded part of herself again. He doesn’t let go, presses harder instead, a dull ache where their heads meet, but if he can feel it then she can feel it and he wants her to know that it’s real and he’s here. He needs her to understand, and this time he will not let her retreat, not until he is sure that she takes some of what he’s saying with her, that one word of light will follow in the darkness into which is she threatening to collapse. 

“Think,” he implores her. “Varric is a businessman. Do you think he would call it a fair deal?”

She shakes her head. “It’s not fair this way either, is it?”

“No,” he sighs. “It’s not. Not remotely. You have done so much for so many people, saved countless lives, rescued a city from itself.” He cradles the back of her head with his hand and buries his fingers in her hair. “I do not claim to understand the Maker’s will, or to be able to explain His plans for a single soul, but we are all unique, and we cannot trade one soul for another. And we will not need to. Varric will be fine. I know it.”

He pulls back enough to look her in the eyes, and the frightened, joyless smile that she fights to give him shatters him. Even now she tries to force herself to put on her bravest face. 

“I don’t want to have to do this again,” she croaks. “I won’t make it.”

Again he is reminded of their first night in Starkhaven, of what she’d told him about wanting to come to the city. That same shadow looms around her now, in her eyes and the slope of her shoulders. She is folding in on herself, and Sebastian aches to see it. Hawke did not want to make it to Starkhaven, and she does not believe will not make it through another call to be the Champion, a fate she has already resigned herself to. 

They have all of them been plunged back into chaos, and Sebastian knows too well what Hawke sees before her: an inevitable call to service, a demand that she sacrifice herself again for the greater good. There is a war that needs to be stopped and everyone else who could end it is gone. The Seekers wanted her to go with them, and had she gone she would have been in the Temple, at the epicenter of the explosion. Everything about her is screaming that she cannot do this again, but she is the Champion, and no one ever asks if the Champion is willing. That trading her life for Varric’s is, to her, the only way to escape this future inevitability scares him, but he can also see that it is nothing in the face of her fear.

“You don’t have to do it again.” He settles one hand on the back of her neck and drops the other down into her lap to cover her hands with his own. She is rubbing at the back of her knuckles with her thumb, and already the skin is pink and swollen where she’s worried at it. “Padi, look at me.”

She does, and this time she doesn’t try to fight against her own grief. A line settles between her brows and she shakes her head slowly as if he doesn’t understand, but he does, at least enough to know that he can reassure her with the truth.

“They can not force you to do anything you don’t want to. I will not allow it.” Her eyes pop up at that, and something is kindled in her eyes. “I will not let them take you from me.”

Her smile is tender as a new shoot, trembling and incredulous, as if she’s still not quite sure she believes him, but she wants to, and for the moment that is enough for Sebastian. The darkness around her recedes as a cloud moving to reveal the sun again, and she falls forward to rest against him, her cheek on his chest and her head tucked under his chin. He wraps an arm around her shoulders and holds her, gently running his fingers through her hair. The tension in her muscles dissolves slowly while they sit together in silence, and he watches her hands where they hold his, her grip loosening as she calms.

“From the moment I met you, I only ever wanted happiness for you.” He shakes his head a little and her hair moves under his chin. “I hoped that I could give you that here, and I will not give up that hope so easily.”

Her laugh is dark and thick from crying, and when she starts to cough he finally lets her pull away, if only to give her space to breathe. “My life is not destined to be one of peace, Sebastian.”

“You can’t know that.” His own desperation creeps into his voice and he tries to bite it back. He needs his own words to be true for both of them. Happiness for Hawke is happiness for him, and peace for her is all he wishes for as he looks at her.

“Yes I can,” she replies, and her tone is so flat and factual that he feels ill to hear it. “It’s been this way for as long as I can remember. Lothering, hiding my sister and my father. The Blight. The Red Iron. The Deep Roads. Qunari, Flint Company, Meredith, Orsino.” The words come faster and faster, and she shakes her head as she recites them. “It  _ follows _ me, Sebastian. Even here I feel like I’ve waiting for it to come find me. Here with you in this Keep is the safest I have ever felt in my entire life, and yet I can not escape the idea that it will all end, and now look. Look what’s happened. The Seekers found me here, and now this.” She sighs and looks away, only to meet his gaze again out of the corner of her eye. “And please, don’t tell me that the Maker moves in mysterious ways, or that he only sends tests to those who are strong enough to meet His challenges. Haven’t I been challenged enough? When does it stop for me? In Kirkwall I wanted peace. Here I wanted peace, but I don’t think I’ll ever have it, not while I live.”

He has no good answer for her. It pains him to think that his bounty is counted among that number, and he wants nothing more than to reassure her that she will never need take such measures again, not for anyone. 

She sighs again, deeper this time, all of her moving with it. The circles under her eyes are deep and dark when she looks at him again, only a glance before she tips her head down. “I think I’d like to rest some more,” she mumbles. “I don’t want to keep talking. It doesn’t help.”

Sebastian nods. There is no reason to deny her this request. For now, all any of them can do is wait for word. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Stay,” she replies even as she moves away from him. “Please.” 

She doesn’t look at him as she straightens, turning and laying down on the bed again with her back to him as she’d been when he came to her. The blanket is hopelessly tangled around her legs from all the moving, and he pulls at it, glad to see her lift her feet enough to let him pull it out from around her so that he can drape it over her again. 

He stretches out on the bed beside her, resting far enough away to put space between them, and reaches out to set a hand on her shoulder. She reaches across her body to lace their fingers together and pulls with surprising strength, tipping him from where he is laying on his side to almost fall against her back. She shuffles to meet him until her shoulders are resting against his chest, and he can see his breath moving her hair when he exhales. She wraps his arm around her like a shawl and clutches his hand to her heart, covering it with both of hers. 

It doesn’t take long for her breathing to turn slow and steady, and her grip on his hands slackens as sleep takes her, but he stays until the sun disappears from the windows. He watches her, tries to memorize the beauty of her face at rest as light paints her in gold, caressing the swell of her lower lip and the soft line of her cheekbone, the dark sweep of her lashes and the sweet, girlish way that the tip of her nose turns up. 

All of this beauty is merely an exterior surrounding the most exquisite parts of her, however. Behind those dark lashes are keen eyes and a sharp mind that can lead, and the softness of her lips is a poor representation of the words that can speak to inspire, to console, to praise and damn and keep a city at bay. And at the center of it all is her heart, deep and soft with incalculable room for so many people. It’s depth holds darkness also, and the light that’s broken through her surface since coming to Starkhaven has yet to reach the deepest depths inside of her. The weight and the cold of threatens to pull her down again, but he will not allow it. Sebastian will hold her until she can keep her own head above the surface.

_ I love you. _ The words rise in his mind like a flower opening, and they are just as natural as that, or as light split into colors through a crystal. Or the Chant. All of these things are true, and his love for her is the same, unquestionable and real, and it settles around him in the stillness of the room, a fundamental shift that is the most obvious thing in the world to him. Sebastian loves her so that it shines within him, warm and bright and constant. One man’s light may not be enough to dispel her darkest shadows, he knows, but as he watches her sleep, he hopes that he can help her until her fire returns and she can battle them back on her own. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! It really means a lot to me to see what people think of this story, and while I know I don't always keep up at replies, know that I read every comment and always want to respond. Sometimes I just need to find the words. 
> 
> Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	26. Nightmares and Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one is sleeping well in the time after the attack on the Temple of Sacred Ashes, but some things are perhaps easier to talk about in the quiet of the night.

_ The worn carpet of the Chantry pads his footsteps as he runs up the aisle. His sisters and brothers pause in their work, turning to follow him with their gaze, unspeaking. He wants to stop, to warn them to run, but he must get to her first. If they lose the Grand Cleric, then all is lost. Or at least, all is lost to him. _

_ Again. _

_ Sebastian pitches forward when the first waves shake the building, landing hard on his hands and knees. Plaster and stone rain down around him, and behind him, the faithful start to flee. _

_ They will not make it far. Even if they make it outside, chaos awaits them. There is no sanctuary in Kirkwall anymore. _

_ He doesn’t know how he made it to the Chantry from the stairs in Lowtown in time. He can still see it in his mind, Anders glowing as he chastised the Grand Enchanter and defied the Knight-Commander. He’d been with Hawke, with all of them, watched as they stood aside and let the mage rant, and then come here. To save Elthina, or be with her again at the end. Even now he doesn’t know which. _

_ “Your Grace--!” He looks up to where she is standing, and he reaches for her on instinct, one arm stretched out before him. She responds, all of it moving in slow motion as she turns to look at him, fear and confusion on her face. The first pillar of red light shimmers as a pool on the floor, illuminating the motes of dust suspended in the air between them. The Templars stationed in the Chantry as protection have not yet reacted fully, and stare at each other in sluggish disbelief as Sebastian gets to his feet. _

_ Perhaps this is what the moments before death are like, slow and drawn out. He does not know if that’s better, or worse. _

_ Behind the Grand Cleric, Andraste stands tall and shining, almost appearing lit from within by the candles gathered around her feet. The huge statue sways, out of time with the stretched pace of the explosion around him, and the air vibrates with sound as the golden visage groans, the sound pressing against his chest. The statue breaks free, tilting to the side as it stumbles forward, seeking balance before falling to one knee, Andraste’s sword buried in the Chantry floor. _

_ The chandeliers overheard ring at the violence of the impact, but the Grand Cleric appears unmoved by this new development, frozen in her terror as she looks to Sebastian to save her. _

_ The Templars are floating, now, falling backwards as the blast hits them. It is not softened, merely slowed, and he looks at them in muted disbelief as he moves towards the platform. _

_ “Andraste, please!” _

_ The pillar of light is as high as his waist. The building rocks again, chunks of the ceiling drifting down to block his access to the stairs. _

_ “She is your most faithful!” He screams, throat aching. He brings a hand to the side of his face to scratch and finds the skin wet. Not blood. _

_ Tears. _

_ The pillar of light is above his head and he can hear it, the roar of magic as he passes by it, staring, his eyes leaving Elthina only for this. He is overcome by an impulse to touch it, to put his hand in the path of the light. How will it feel? Will he feel anything at all? _

_ “Sebastian.” Two voices as one, and he can not distinguish which is Elthina and which is Andraste. He looks up to see the statue looming over both of them. The Grand Cleric is weeping. The statue’s expression is unchanged. _

_ “She is my family! I can not lose my family again. Andraste, I beg of you! Hear me!” He is at the base of the platform now, with no way to reach her. He falls to his knees, hands fisted in the heavy fabric of the banner. Elthina looks down at him. _

_ “Do not be afraid, child.” _

_ The statue above him begins to glow, a golden light to rival the red glare filling the Chantry. Both of them burn, brighter and brighter, as if to push against each other. All the air turns to light and Sebastian can no longer see the Grand Cleric, and it burns his eyes as tears stream down his face. He can not see it but he knows when time snaps back, the pillar exploding through the roof and-- _

_ And-- _

Sebastian lurches up in bed, throwing off his covers and surprised by his own heaving breaths. There is no light, no roar of magic, no silent statue. Outside the window, the sky is clear and dark, silhouetting familiar rooftops. He in Starkhaven, and he is safe.

The same cannot be said of others. A raven arrived that morning with news from Varric, and Sebastian watched as Hawke and her sister both fought to hold back tears as they huddled together, reading at the same time. Varric is alive, and as safe as he can be in Haven. Someone survived the explosion at the temple, a woman with a mark on her hand, and Varric finds himself no longer the chief focus of Seeker Pentaghast’s attention and irritation. When Sebastian finally got to read the letter himself, he couldn’t help but think that Varric almost seemed sorry to see someone else in Cassandra’s sights.

That the Seeker and Sister Leliana should restart the Inquisition is a surprise to Sebastian, but one overshadowed by the knowledge that Varric is all right. Nonetheless, too little is still known about what happened at the Temple, and information will be slow to come, if it comes at all.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands. The room is cool, with the fire little more than guttering embers in the hearth. He fumbles in the dark for pants to put on, raking his fingers through his hair before opening his bedroom door. He is too wired and awake to go back to sleep right away, but he has no destination in mind. Perhaps the kitchen, to see if there are ingredients for a tea to calm him.

As soon as he steps into the hallway, however, he sees light coming from the doorway to his reading room. He turns and shuffles up the hall, surprised to find Hawke curled up in one corner of the sofa with a pot of tea on a tray on the table. She’s staring into the fire, blinking slowly but nowhere near sleep. Varric’s letter rests in her lap and Canut is curled into a Mabari-sized ball in front of the fireplace. 

Sebastian clears his throat as he steps over the threshold, and she looks up at him with furrowed brows and a confused expression that softens as she takes him in.

“Mind if I join you?” He asks, nodding to the other end of the couch.

“Not at all,” she replies, gesturing for him to sit. “Did you have a bad dream, too?” 

He nods, staring into the fire as he sinks down to sit.

“Do you want to talk about it?” They both have their own nightmares. Sometimes they tell each other, but there are some things they must each work through on their own, before they can bring it to the other. This recent string of events has brought things to the surface that were long buried, that Sebastian would have been glad to never have thought about again.

“I dreamt of the Chantry in Kirkwall,” he tells her in a flat voice. “That I was there. That I saw, but I could only watch. I couldn’t do anything.”

He sighs and falls back against the couch, turning his head to look at her. “What about you?” He asks, frowning. “What is it that’s got you up this time of night?”

She picks up the letter and waves it weakly in front of her, the paper making flapping softly. “I dreamt about Varric. ‘Ass deep in demons’ is not a description that inspires me to want to… How did he put it?” She straightens the letter and purses her lips, all but glaring at it. “‘Stay put and let Choir Boy keep you out of trouble.’” 

She lowers the paper and tilts her head, giving Sebastian a knowing look that he can only return. He understands that Hawke’s first instinct is to rush off to help her friend, and he regrets that the part Varric expects him to play is to keep her in Starkhaven. It is the safest place for her, though he would think the same even without Varric’s prompting.

“It was Varric and demons.” She sighs. “And Anders was there, but it wasn’t him, it was Justice, or Vengeance, and it was a mess, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I came in here to find something to read and just sort of gave up, I suppose.” She spreads her arms out. “I landed here and haven’t gotten up.”

“You brought tea?” He asks, nodding towards the teapot and still-empty cup on the tray.

Hawke looks it and blinks as if seeing it for the first time. “That’s right, I did. I thought I’d make tea to help me sleep, but then I started looking for a book.” She leans over and lifts the lid on the pot, wrinkling her nose. “It’s probably oversteeped by now.”

“Do you mind if I have some anyway? At least to try it?” He asks. He has no idea how long she’s been there, so she’s likely right about the tea, but he’ll need it if he’s to get any more sleep tonight, and it would be a shame to waste it since it’s already made. That she smiles when she nods and even sits forward to pour it for him is a pleasant but unexpected bonus.

“What made you join the Chantry?” 

The question comes from nowhere, almost jarring enough to rattle the teacup in his hands. When he turns to look at her, she’s sitting with her legs drawn up, arms wrapped around them, not quite enough to her chin to rest on her knees, watching him with a sort of quiet curiosity.

“Captain Leland, and a locked door on an upper floor.” He glances at her without turning his head as he sips the tea, not wanting to smile more than a little. It’s not what she meant, but it feels good, to be able to joke about it, even just a little. It helps that it’s with her.

She rolls her eyes, shifting so that she’s resting against the back of the couch. “Okay, yes, fine. Why did you  _ stay,  _ then?” She takes a breath without speaking, and he thinks he understands it. There are those that the Chantry keeps behind lock and key, but he is not among them. “I mean, you’re royalty, and no mage. Surely you could’ve gotten out if you wanted.”

“‘No one should enter the Chantry through the back door.’ Elthina said that to me, one of my first nights there. She was ready to let me go, gave me back my parents’ coin and said that I could leave if I wanted, but I didn’t. I went back in.”

“Why?” She presses, though not unkindly. 

And then he does turn to look at her, where she has her head pillowed on her arm on the couch, and she’s looking at him with such openness that he almost wants to move away. He’ll explain, but not when he’s sitting this close. He’s not used to being asked about it without scorn or judgment, and he’s not sure he knows how to respond with defense.

“I had nowhere else to go.” He pulls one leg up onto the couch, turning to face her. She, in turn, stretches out her leg and lets her foot rest against his ankle, not breaking eye contact while she does so. He swallows, tries to find his voice again and fight against the warmth that runs through him at this most innocent touch of skin on skin.

“My parents sent me there, so I couldn’t go back to them, or to Starkhaven at all. I was essentially homeless.” Hawke was right; the tea is too strong and bitter, but now he needs the distraction, so he takes another sip and holds it in his mouth until it cools enough to swallow. “The money my parents  _ donated _ to the Chantry would’ve gotten me a new start, but what was I to do with it? I was aimless, never set on a path by my parents until then. That was the first time they’d told me what they wanted me to do instead of what they didn’t want me to do. Part of me wanted to rebel against it, but part of me was tired. I wanted a purpose that lasted longer than a night. A bottle of liquor makes a poor hourglass.”

She’s hooked her toes under the hem of his pants, and when he stops talking, her gaze flicks up from there to meet his eyes. There is the slightest line between her brows, a furrow of sympathy if not understanding. He’s seen her at the bottom of a bottle more than once, so perhaps there is some understanding there.

“In Starkhaven, in my youth, I took freedom, or at least that was what I thought I was doing. More than I needed, more than I knew what to do with. Elthina, though. She  _ offered  _ me freedom.” He gestures towards her with the cup still in hand. “She showed me that it had value, and I was moved by that, by the idea that I could choose. And so I did. And I--” He shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair and feels it when the longest parts at the front fall around his temples. “Andraste brought us together, Elthina and I. She was what I needed. Some days I still do.”

His eyes burn, and he rubs at them with a thumb and forefinger, dragging in to pinch the bridge of his nose. The soft sounds of Hawke shifting on the couch don’t prepare him for the warmth of her hand on his leg, fingers landing to wrap around his calf. He sets a hand on top of hers and just breathes, not burying the pain but letting it leave him with every exhale. 

“I stayed because it gave me purpose. Sure, at the start, I was a mess. Do you know what happens to a person when they drink, every night, and then just stop?” She’s embarrassed when he looks at her, and he regrets asking, even if he knows that she was never in the state that he’d been. “She helped me through that as well, through the sickness and the fever, all of it. And she taught me how to help others the same way.”

“I found things in the Chantry that I didn’t even realize I was missing,” he continues. “I found freedom from my freedom, rediscovered things that I loved and had forgotten - reading, singing, even archery. If you’d known me then - I couldn’t hit a barn wall. My grandfather would never have given me his bow if he had seen me, and you would never have wanted me fighting with you.”

“I find that hard to imagine.” Her voice is soft, and for a moment he worries that she’s grown tired, but when he looks, she’s still alert and looking at him with infinite fondness, so much that he can’t hold her gaze. He looks away, up at the ceiling, chuckling to himself.

“When I was young, I imagined Andraste as young. Beautiful, powerful. As I’ve grown, so has she in my mind. She is the Maker’s Bride, but is she not also His wife, then? And a mother? Andraste herself did not grow old as a mortal, but with the Maker?” Even now, when he knows that he is safe with Hawke, he can not bring himself to say it. It is too dear to him, too strange a truth to share. “Elthina was not a perfect woman, but she was what I needed, a mother that I lacked and didn’t realize I longed for, and I miss her every day, still, even if I can look back and see how--”

“It’s okay.” Hawke squeezes his leg when his voice breaks, saves him from having to say the words, and he swallows again, as if to move them back into his lungs and unmake them. 

“You asked about the Chantry and here I am telling you about Elthina,” he sighs.

“They’re two parts of a whole for you,” she reasons, and he nods as she explains. “It makes sense. You’re that, for me. Linked, like that.”

Her admission leaves him breathless. He sees the truth in it, the way that he’d seen Elthina and the Chantry, but to think that he could be that for someone as well somehow feels like too much responsibility, as well as an incredible honor. That it should be Hawke makes the idea no less overwhelming.

“What about you?” He tries to pick up the conversation again from where he’d stumbled into silence at her words. He gives up on the tea, setting the cup back on the table. “You visited the Chantry in Kirkwall regularly, but usually it was for reasons other than contemplation.” Sebastian does nothing to hide the warmth that creeps into his voice at the memories of Sisters teasing him because he lingered near the door in case Hawke came, or how he would abandon his studies the moment she came running up the stairs to find him for some adventure.

Hawke nods, humming agreement. While she talks, she picks at a lock of hair, running it through her fingers and twisting. “We went sometimes in Lothering. It was smaller, more humble, rustic. It’s been hard, trying to keep my faith in the Maker when I look around me. Or rather.” She sighs, uncertainty in her eyes. “It’s hard to keep my patience with the Chantry, too, I suppose. Or both. I don’t want to--”

“Hawke.” He waits for her to meet his eyes, sorry to see how long it takes, the nervousness there when she finally looks. “After all you’ve been through, some doubt is not unnatural, to question, to seek answers.”

“I just told you that I think of you when I think of the Chantry. I don’t want you to think--” She sighs. “It’s not you that I doubt, please understand that. It’s bigger than you, the Chantry. It’s that part that I have questions for.” She spreads her hands as if to illustrate the size of it. Sebastian hopes he understands, thinks that he does. He is only one man within the Chantry. It is a vast organization, and Sebastian himself has found himself wondering about it lately, about the size of it and the ideas that can grow in something so large.

“I’ll do what I can to answer and to help you. Forgive me, but clearly something is troubling you. You can tell me.”

“How can you still love and trust the Maker so completely after everything that’s happened to you?” The words burst out of her, and there’s an unspoken apology in the turn of her mouth as she watches him, waiting for an answer. “Everything you’ve lost, all that He’s taken from you, all that He’s put you through? And you continue to trust Him and believe that He has a plan for this?”

Her words hurt to hear. She is not only asking for him, but for herself as well. He recognizes the question from confessions and time spent with wayward souls. They’ve both lost almost everything there is to lose, and they’ve both rebuilt around themselves, found a common foundation in each other, but he can understand that she has doubts.

“How can I not?” He offers, as gently as he can. “Where else am I to turn, if not to Him? The bottom of a bottle, a bed in a brothel, or the end of a sword? I’ll find no peace there. I never did, not truly.”

“You trust Him to give you peace?” Her tone borders on incredulous, but her curiosity remains, and he is glad for that.

And now he smiles, and it’s hard to look at her when he does because she doesn’t share his joy, not in this moment. Perhaps she never has. “It’s not up to Him to  _ give _ it to me.  _ I find it with Him _ . Knowing the Maker as I can, holding Him in my heart, gives me peace, but it is not through His will alone. He loves us too much to send us through storms we cannot weather. We must trust that; that’s what faith is, the evidence of things unseen. If we are to trust in the Maker and His love, we must trust that He who sends the storm will also send the eye.” Sebastian leans forward, reaching to lift her chin until she meets his eyes. “That was you, Hawke. You’re the eye in my storm. You walked into the Chantry in Kirkwall and helped me with the greatest pain that I had even known. I find peace with you as I do with Him, I carry you both in my heart, and I am stronger for it. I have lost, but I have also gained. Do you see?”

The doubt in her eyes has softened. Questions remain, but she doesn’t give voice to them, instead only nodding, leaving Sebastian to imagine that he can feel each whorl and ridge of his fingertips where they are still pressed to her skin. He closes his hand like a flower, holding the warmth of her against his palm as his hand falls into his lap.

“You make it sound so beautiful and easy. It’s never been like that for me,” she explains, quiet and sullen. “It’s not that I don’t want to trust Him.” She gestures widely with her arm. “He doesn’t always make a girl feel welcome, though.”

“I hope I can do something to change that for you,” he offers. “You are always welcome with me, in any case.”

Her smile is weak and fades quickly, but it’s enough to tell him that she’s heard what he said. “I don’t know how Bethany did it. You’d think, if there was one of us that didn’t want to accept what the Chantry said, it would be her. Even with her magic, she’s still so much more faithful than I am, it’s remarkable.”

Sebastian nods along, listening. He understands what Hawke means, and he and Bethany have spoken before about the Chant and the Maker. She is a smart and capable mage, and more than once Sebastian has been sorry to hear her refer to her magic as a curse, even as she wields it to protect others and to do good. Bethany uses her magic to serve man, not to rule over him, and that is something that she learned before they met, likely before she ever set foot in a Chantry, if Sebastian had to guess.

“Hawke, do you believe in the Maker?” He rests his cheek on his fist where his arm is propped up on the back of the couch and waits for her answer.

“ _ Yes _ ?” Her reply comes slowly, drawn out as if she’s waiting for some sort of catch. 

“And do you believe that Andraste was His prophet?”

“Yes.” This time the answer comes with a tentative nod.

“Then that is all you need.” He offers the words with a soft smile, disappointed to find that the tea is having an effect on him. This is important, and he doesn’t want his thoughts blurred at the edges by drowsiness. “Never forget that the Chantry is a human invention. All those within it strive to do the Maker’s will, but in the end they are all people. You do not need to have faith in the Chantry to have faith in the Maker.” He sucks in a breath, bringing a hand to his mouth as he yawns. “I beg your pardon, Hawke. That tea of yours was strong, I’m afraid. Does this make sense to you? Does it help?”

He is both surprised and gratified when she nods. “It does, Sebastian. Thank you.”

She sets her feet on the floor and stands, holding a hand out to him. “Come on, let’s get you to bed before you fall asleep here on the couch.”

Sebastian looks around at where he’s sitting. “I could sleep here.”

“Yes, you could,” she chuckles. “You’d regret it tomorrow, though.” 

Hawke reaches down and takes his hand, hauling him to his feet. He sighs and yawns again, watching her as she pours the tea out into the fire to douse it. The room goes dark and he blinks slowly, trying to adjust his eyes to the sudden lack of light.

He follows Hawke out into the hall and they linger at the doorway, each of their rooms in opposite directions. Canut slinks past only to appear again, his head peeking out as he waits for Hawke to join him in her room.

“Will you be able to sleep now?” He asks, remembering that the tea was for her originally, but she didn’t drink any. Nonetheless, she nods, wrapping her arms around her body to hold off some of the chill that he creeps in under his clothes.

“You said that I’m a link for you, to the Chantry.” He’s so tired that he’s not sure this is going to make sense, but this feels important, and he wants to try to say it before he leaves her. “If I am, then you should know that the Maker smiles on you. There is so much of His Light in you, Hawke. Never doubt that.”

It’s too dark to see if she’s smiling, but he does see her shift her weight and look away with the sort of little shake of her head that she does when she’s not quite sure she’s buying the story someone’s telling her. 

Sebastian steps in close and sets a hand on her shoulder. He leans down and presses a kiss to her temple, breathing in the scents of smoke and tea that still cling to her hair. There are words he wants to say, but they stick in his throat and pull at his chest, and so the Chant flows out around them instead. “ _ In the long hours of the night when hope has abandoned me, I will see the stars and know Your Light remains _ ,” he whispers, his breath reflected warm against her skin. “Good night, Hawke.”

He moves away, one slow backwards step at a time, not wanting to leave her even as he makes his way to his room. 

“Good night, Sebastian,” she calls softly after him. “Thank you.”

He thinks he sees her bring her hand to her temple just before he turns at the doorway to his bedroom, and this time when he falls asleep, he dreams of light on water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the lack of a chapter last week. I am not doing well with the state of the world and the state of myself right now, and I completely forgot. I've set some reminders so that hopefully that doesn't happen again. 💚
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! It really means a lot to me to see what people think of this story, and while I know I don't always keep up at replies, know that I read every comment and always want to respond. Sometimes I just need to find the words. 
> 
> Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	27. Templars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life continues in Starkhaven, including Sebastian's search for his family. This time the search leads to the Templar barracks.

Life has not returned to normal, but it has settled around the Keep, and around the others in Starkhaven that followed Sebastian from Kirkwall. Haven is far away, and news is slow to come. The Chantry bells stopped ringing, and the city is doing its best to carry on, with Sisters keeping the Chantry doors open to those in need while they wait for news of a new Revered Mother and a new Divine. There is no information yet as to who could be chosen, only endless rumor, or everyone involved instead continuing to lament that all potential candidates perished at the Conclave. Their loss is significant, but not the worst casualty of the explosion. That title belongs to the chance at peace that was lost along with the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

The war continues around them, with each side blaming the other for the explosion and using it as propaganda to incite violence on their enemies. Fenris returned to Starkhaven as soon as he was able, and the Guard have their hands full keeping peace in the city. Beyond the shores of the Minanter Sebastian has seen lightning in the distance when he watches from the safety of the Keep, bolts of flame that flicker in the black of night, met by the flash of Templar resistance. Some few Templars still patrol within the city, and Sebastian allows it, even if Hawke and the others cast him dark glances when it was decided. Rumors that the Inquisition recruited the rebel mages to their cause bolstered the confidence of those apostates who find themselves within the city walls, and Sebastian will do what he can to protect the people of Starkhaven. That the Templars broke with the Chantry troubles him, but so far they seem to accept the authority of the Prince better than that of a Chantry Brother, though only just, and in some things more than others.

Every reply Sebastian receives from the Knight-Captain reassures him that his son is still in the city, but offers no information as to how to find him, what he looks like, or when he would be at the barracks so that a meeting could be arranged. The Knight-Commander felt the loss of Mother Margot quite keenly and strained at the Chantry leash until it snapped, setting him free to leave the city and hunt the mages he was certain were responsible for her death, so Sebastian is left with no choice but to deal with the Knight-Captain and his circuitous answers to straight-forward questions. 

One only gets so far with letters, however, and so today he is taking the matter into his own hands. Donning his armor and a long cloak in a deep blue over top of it, Sebastian prepares to leave the Keep and find the Knight-Captain, to be taken to his son one way or another. While Sebastian has never mentioned it in his messages, there is a growing suspicion in his mind that someone within the Templars knows of the heritage they have within their ranks, and is working to keep him from finding the man who would rightfully be heir to the throne. 

Hawke appears in the doorway to his bedroom, dressed to go into the city in a well-fitted deep green gambeson set with leather and gold buckles over soft brown pants. Her hair is swept back from her face in braids that start at her temples and meet at the back of her head. Though she isn’t carrying her bow, she’s wearing her archer’s gloves, and her wrists, shoulders, and legs are covered with leather armor as well. 

She looks more like the Champion of Kirkwall than he’s seen since they came to Starkhaven, and Sebastian’s heart quickens to see it, even as his stomach sinks. The darkness has yet to completely leave her eyes, lightening but not vanishing at the news of Varric’s safety. Sebastian’s attempts to raise her spirits have proven largely unsuccessful, but if nothing else, he at least knows the reason for the set of her jaw and the line between her brows today.

“I am glad you’ve agreed to come with me.” He offers a smile that’s faintly returned, a quick flash on her face before she nods. “I know how you feel about the Templars staying in the city, but this isn’t about that, even if he is a Templar.”

Hawke nods again, folding her arms across her chest as she leans against the door frame. “I understand, Sebastian, you don’t have to explain again.” Her tone is level, but low, and again he is reminded of the Champion, all business and no pleasure for her in today’s mission.

Even with her reassurance, he can’t stop the pull to explain, to try to make up for the mistakes he made at the start of this. It’s important to him that she understands how much easier this is with her at his side, how much more right it feels to meet his son alongside her. Things didn't go how he hoped with Delphine, a meeting that still reverberates between them and throughout the Keep, but he hopes that this meeting will be different. 

Sebastian closes the distance between them with quick strides. He reaches out but hesitates, unsure where to touch or how, what would be best to smooth the lines in her face and allow her smile to linger. His hands frame her as he lowers them, until at last he takes her hands in his and pulls her closer, waits until she's stopped looking down at their hands to start talking again. "I should never have gone to do any of this without you."

He rubs his thumbs over her leather-covered knuckles as he talks, a nervous habit that’s moved from him to her now. She curls her fingers to squeeze his hand, smiling at him more confidently and nodding. "You were doing what you thought was best." She pauses. "I can’t say I’m not glad you’ve changed your mind, though, even if it does mean going with you to meet a Templar. You’re really sure this is a good idea? You know the reputation I have with them, unless you think not a single Templar in Starkhaven has ever heard of me?”

He grins, a weight lifted from his chest. If she can joke, then perhaps she’s feeling better and this darkness will finally pass. 

“I doubt that,” he replies, letting go of her hands and gesturing for them to leave the room. “Anyway it’s high time they get used to the idea of you in the city if they haven’t already.”

Fenris is waiting by the door for the two of them when they make their way down the stairs, and even he looks marginally more pleased when he sees them approaching. "Are you sure you still need me, Your Highness? It looks like you'll be well-protected." Fenris unfolds from where he was sitting in a chair near the door, one corner of his mouth quirking up as he asks. Canut stands as well but stays by Fenris’ feet, his position as guard dog seeming somewhat dubious as his back end wiggles at Hawke’s approach.

"Oh, I'm not bringing my bow," Hawke replies. "Not to this. I don't want to look hostile,” she says, though the curl in her voice tells Sebastian that there’s more to it than that.

"What about your daggers, then?" Fenris replies, his voice lowered conspiratorially. 

Sebastian smiles, suspecting he knows the answer.

"Well. I'm not going there unarmed, either," she admits, flashing them both a grin as she pats one side of her coat, and Sebastian smiles wider at having guessed correctly. “Champion of Kirkwall at a Templar barracks? I’m trying to show some goodwill, not surrender.”

They make their way out into the day’s brilliant sunshine and head off in the direction of the Circle, or at least the building where the Circle used to be. Sebastian can feel her getting more nervous as they approach the barracks, her grip tightening on his hand and her pace slowing, if only slightly. There is no doubt that she is thinking of her sister, of Merrill, of every Templar in Kirkwall that saw her as a threat for years. Starkhaven is not Kirkwall, but it will take time for Sebastian to make that an absolute truth. This is a start, and for his own part he is anxious to see the knights for himself. His place in the Chantry is not one that allows for such things as inspecting troops, and his own past with the Templars in Kirkwall led him to keep some distance when he first took his place as Prince here.

When he’d first joined the Chantry, they seemed untouchable, as regal as his father and brother in their shining armor, the Sword of Mercy etched into their breastplates and sewn into their cloaks and sashes. For years the belief held, that they were the protectors of the faithful, of mages and non-mages alike, keeping the two separate but equal, at a distance from each other for everyone’s protection. It had taken Hawke, Anders, Bethany and the others to really show him what the Templars of Kirkwall were doing to the people of the city. This was a truth that Sebastian was ashamed to have failed to consider, and one that he has promised himself he will never forget again: That mages are also part of the cities in which they live, part of the Chantry and the Maker’s Children. Templars are also people, but Sebastian looks upon them differently now, these men and women who choose a life of service to the Chantry that also means a life of keeping others under guard. 

The barracks that houses the Templars in Starkhaven is a long and narrow structure in a duller, greyer brick than the surrounding buildings. The walls are set with small, functional windows and little other ornamentation. Indeed the look of the whole building is more functional than ornamented, not at all like the rebuilt Circle, the shadow of which falls over them as they make their way up the walk to the main door. Hawke drops Sebastian’s hand, folding her hands behind her back as the guard stands to attention on one side of the door. With so many Templars leaving, it appears two guards is a luxury they can no longer afford.

“Your Highness.” The voice is lighter than anticipated, the guard all but unseen behind the heavy helmet and bulky armor. She brings her arm up in a startled salute, her gauntlet clacking against her helmet.

Sebastian nods but doesn’t return the salute, mirroring Hawke’s stance with his own hands folded behind his back while the guard opens the doors set into center of the long side of the building. Fenris steps past him and Hawke to go through first, eyeing the guard with suspicion. Her expression is hidden but she says nothing, Fenris’ uniform and place at the Prince’s side speaking louder than any protest she might try to make. Sebastian drops his hands to his sides and follows with Hawke at his elbow and Canut behind them all. 

The interior is surprisingly dark and austere, with bunks on one side of the doorway, kitchen and tables on the other. Even in midday torches flicker where they hang in front of deep black scorch marks left on the stone they’re mounted to, and the windows let in little light. 

The Knight-Captain stands as they approach, slipping out from behind the heavy desk standing opposite the entrance. It would be a strange place for someone of his rank to sit, but again, the lack of other Templars in the city means that each of them must do more to pull their weight, including keeping track of all who come and go. The Knight-Captain is a tall, thin man with grey-brown hair pulled into a ponytail at the base of his neck, disappearing down under his armor. He looks down at them over a wide nose that has seen its fair share of punches, his dark eyes assessing them before any of them even speaks.

"Knight-Captain Bernard.” Sebastian tilts his head slightly as he speaks.

"Sebastian." Bernard nods but doesn’t salute, nor does he bow. 

Fenris clears his throat where he stands at Sebastian's elbow. Sebastian turns his head to acknowledge it, well aware of the Templar's misstep, and waits for the man himself to realize. He’s been Prince for months, but given the borderline irreverence in his replies to Sebastian’s missives, he cannot say he is surprised to see Bernard fail to acknowledge his title and standing.

It takes longer than he would like, but after a moment the older man acquiesces, though it’s clear in the narrowing of his eyes that he sees it as a defeat. "Forgive me, Your Highness. The last time I saw you, you were little more than a boy, running the streets." He sets an arm across his waist and one on his back as he bows, low and stiff as if a hand was pushing between his shoulders.

"And now I am your Prince, and expect to be addressed as such. Do not let it happen again." This is another reason Sebastian avoided coming to the barracks until now. Templars, in his limited experience, are only interested in the authority of other Templars.

Bernard’s nod is curt, more dismissive than understanding, and he does not smile at Sebastian. "Might I ask who your companions are?"

He is overstepping his bounds again and he knows it; it’s the glint in his eyes as if daring Sebastian to point it out and press the issue. Sebastian is about to protest when Hawke steps forward, slipping her hand out from her pocket to offer it to the Templar.

"Padi Hawke. Champion of Kirkwall. You may have heard of me. I would say it's a pleasure, but so far it's really not been." She offers the greeting with the same sort of grace that she gave to the Viscount, to the Arishok and to Meredith, the same hint of the power she knows she and her title wield.

Bernard’s gauntlet swallows her hand when he reaches out to her, and he looks to Sebastian as he leans in to brush his lips to her knuckles. Sebastian sees Hawke's lip curl out of the corner of his eye, but the gesture goes unnoticed by Bernard. She glances back over her shoulder at Sebastian as she steps away, raising her eyebrows in surprise. It was more than he anticipated from the Knight-Captain as well, and even if it is only for show, he’ll accept it.

"And this is Fenris,” Hawke offers as Fenris steps forward. “Captain of the City Guard here in Starkhaven."

Bernard doesn’t even deign to pretend to take this news well, thick eyebrows shooting up as he looks Fenris over. "Ah yes, I’ve heard of this, but wasn’t sure I believed the rumor. This Elf, the Commander?"

"Yes?" Sebastian replies, cool and regal, not quite a question so much as an inability to believe that he is being questioned. "I've fought side by side with him, and I know of no better man to lead my armies, and to train them. I would say that you could put him up against any of your Templars, but I am here for another purpose, and as I understand it, the Templars in the city have already been bested several times by the Guard. Two of your men sit in my jail right now as a result of their actions.”

Fenris makes a small, satisfied sound at the back of his throat at the mention of the scuffles. Some Templars seemed to think the war allowed them to help themselves to whatever they thought they needed without payment or permission, and Fenris’ guards stopped the same pair of men twice before finally hauling them into cells to keep them from raiding homes and businesses in search of coin and supplies they didn’t need. 

“Perhaps when I’ve concluded my business here,” Sebastian continues, “we should re-examine the need for Templars inside Starkhaven’s walls, if they are so out of control that they will not listen to the orders of the Prince as carried out by the City Guard.” He pauses and draws a breath, annoyed with himself even as he feels a thrill to see the color drain from Bernard’s face. “Hopefully such a discussion will prove to be unnecessary after this.”

The Knight-Captain nods, settling his stance. He sniffs, still unimpressed, but lets the matter go for now at least. Sebastian doubts he's heard the last of it. He is reluctant to banish the Templars from the city, but they must answer to some sort of authority while in Starkhaven, and if they will not follow him and the Knight-Captain is unwilling to listen or move to change that, then he may be left with no choice. Filling the jail with power-hungry Templars is not a solution he wishes to employ.

Bernard purses his lips, eyes shifting between the three of them before landing on Sebastian. "I appreciate you bringing this to my attention, Your Highness. How can we be of service to the crown?"

"We're here looking for a boy,” Sebastian explains, even though he knows that Bernard knows about his search; the man’s signature has been on every reply. “Well, a man, he would be now, twenty years old. He was recruited directly from the Chantry, a mage in the Circle gave birth to him."

Bernard nods as Sebastian explains, his hands resting on the pommel of his sword at his side. "Markus Kindl, yes, you’ve written to me about him before.”

Hawke draws a breath at his side, but when he looks to her, she gives a quick shake of her head. Whatever it was, it will wait, apparently.

It is not only Sebastian’s attention that’s drawn by Hawke’s reaction. Bernard notices as well, pausing as he waits for an explanation. When none comes, he continues, casting glances at Hawke while he talks as if expecting her to change her mind. “He's a good lad, skilled, studied hard from the moment he decided he wanted to be a Templar. He took his vows some months ago, has regular patrols now. Not that there's much to patrol." He looks down at a ledger on his desk, turning a page as if searching. “I thought I’d made it clear that Markus is unavailable.”

“You have,” Sebastian confirms. “So many times that I was led to wonder if the two of you are the only ones left within the safety of the city.” He folds his arms across his chest and tilts his head just slightly as he regards Bernard. “So I thought I’d come down here and wait until he arrives. He must eat sometime, sleep sometime. I will see him, Knight-Captain.”

"Can I ask what the crown's interest is in the boy?" Bernard glances up from the ledger as he turns another page.

"No." Sebastian offers no apology or explanation. Bernard can not refuse him when he is standing in the middle of the barracks, nor is he owed any measure of insight into their purpose here, especially as Sebastian is already suspicious that Bernard knows why he seeks this particular Templar. "I would speak with him as soon as possible."

Bernard sighs, a deep, irritated sound that almost pushes at his armor, but he does not protest. "He’s on patrol, but should be back presently. You are, of course, welcome to wait here until he arrives, otherwise he can be sent to the palace at once."

"We'll wait." Were it anyone other than Hawke, it would be out of turn for her to speak, but Sebastian finds that he is bolstered by her presence and her willingness to play a role in this. "Perhaps outside. This place stinks of lyrium,” she says, glancing around at the walls as if there should be blue veins in the stone even here.

With that, she turns on her heel and heads back out through the door. Fenris turns to the side to allow her to pass, his head swivelling to keep an eye on both her and Sebastian. Bernard watches her go with his mouth slightly open, unable to summon a reply. Sebastian should be less pleased to see him so flummoxed, but he can’t help but feel a certain enjoyment of the moment.

"Well," Sebastian says, one eyebrow raised. "That's decided, then. Thank you for your time, Knight-Captain. We'll be seeing each other again soon."

Bernard nods enough to give the appearance of a bow, and Sebastian tells himself that it is enough and he should be satisfied. With the Knight-Commander gone and the heads of the Starkhaven Chantry dead, the man isn't used to real authority in the city, and Sebastian has seen well enough how easy it can be for Templars to let the authority they are given go to their heads. He must ensure that that does not happen in Starkhaven, but for the moment there are other considerations.

He finds Hawke outside, pacing a little, two steps in one direction, then the other as she hugs her arms tight around her body. She pauses when she sees him, shaking her head softly as she glances past him at the door to the barracks, then returns her gaze to meet his eyes.

"I don't know how I expected this to feel, but I don't think it was like this. I don't know how much of it is  _ him _ , either," she adds, unfolding and waving a hand at the barracks. "I knew your son was a Templar, but--” She makes a noise at the back of her throat. “That Knight-Captain is a real piece of work."

He chuckles, taking a step toward her. Her trepidation is understandable, and he doesn’t want to brush it off, even as he’s sure that nothing will happen to them while they are here. He glances back over his shoulder, then leans in closer to her. "He was, but I'll deal with him some other time, and you needn’t be here for that. Are you okay? You can leave, if you want. I'll understand."

She gives him a weak smile and shakes her head. "No, I want to be here for this. I want to meet him. He's-- well, he's your son, isn't he? I want to meet him as your son.”

The phrase strikes Sebastian as odd, and he recalls they way she reacted at mention of his name. “Have you met him before? When Bernard said his name inside, I thought there was something.”

Hawke nods, pressing her lips together and looking away, her brow furrowed. “He was the Templar who tried to keep Fenris from going with me when we went to see you lead the Chant.” She pauses, her eyes rolling up as she thinks back. “He seemed well-intentioned, interested in doing a good job.” Shrugging with one shoulder, she shifts her weight, not quite resuming her pacing. “Not really his fault he got terrible orders, but he was also quick to agree when I sent him on his way. Of course, I had no idea who he was at the time.”

Sebastian runs a hand along his jaw, trying to figure out where this puzzle piece fits in his knowledge of the man. “You never mentioned any of this.”

Her eyes widen when she turns to look at him again, as if he caught her off guard by pointing it out. “I suppose it slipped my mind. It was a long day in the Chantry, and I was just glad to see you when you came out. It didn’t seem important afterwards. He went back to the barracks, people got to see you chant, all was well.”

As if speaking of him had called him forth, Sebastian sees the figure of a Templar approaching. His face is hidden by his helmet, and most of the rest of him by his armor. Something in his gait still speaks to his youth, as if he’s not quite done growing yet, not used to his body or perhaps not used to his armor. Hawke steps away from Sebastian, and he feels more than sees Fenris move closer behind him. 

The young Templar stops, helmet swivelling as he looks at the trio. Hawke shifts her weight and Sebastian only just sees it. She is nervous about this, but she is staying, and he is glad for that. He doesn’t want to do this alone again. With Delphine, there was a mother but no child to meet. Now, with Markus, there is his son and no mother left to join them.

“Greetings,” Sebastian starts. Part of him is relieved that he will never have to do this again; it has yet to get easier, figuring out how to balance the authority of his office with the weight of the news he brings, the friendliness that he wants to convey. “Is it Markus?”

The Templar nods but remains unmoving otherwise.

“Take your helmet off,” Sebastian continues, nodding gently towards him. “I’d like to speak with you.”

The man does as Sebastian requests, lifting off the helmet and nestling it against his side, under his arm. He looks older than Sebastian expected when he'd seen him coming up the road towards them. His dark hair is messy and uneven, loosened from where he's tied it while wearing his helmet. He has a scar across one cheek that points down to his mouth, and Sebastian realizes that he has his mother's lips, but he also definitely has his father's eyes. There is no mistaking the blue of them, to the point where he can't help but wonder how no one noticed it before now.   


"Markus Kindl, Your Highness. It's, umm, it's an honor, sir." He bows a little, stiffly from the waist, and Sebastian must remind himself that that's to be expected. The man knows nothing yet of why he's come to find him.   


"And you're the Champion of Kirkwall, aren't you?” He turns to Hawke and offers a shallower bow. “It's a pleasure, serah. I've heard about you, how you helped the Templars in Kirkwall round up some of the mages we-- well, I wasn't a Templar yet, but there were some mages that escaped, and--"   


"Yes." Hawke cuts him off, saving him from digging the hole deeper, but draws the word out in audible confusion. Sebastian glances over, and she looks uncomfortable, but not unhappy. She might be being polite for his sake, and he's not sure what he thinks of that, but there is no opportunity to talk about it now. "Well, I'm flattered to hear that my exploits made it so far afield. Or at least some of them," she adds, her gaze flicking over to Sebastian before looking away. No need to bring up the swath she'd cut through the Templar ranks to the south. Not today, at least.    


"I don't believe we've met," Markus continues, moving past Hawke to extend his hand to Fenris. "I've heard about you, the elf in charge of the City Guard, correct? Never thought I'd see the day, but it’s a welcome one. It's a pleasure, ser."   


Fenris looks to Sebastian with a look of almost panic in his eyes. Sebastian calmly nods to Markus' hand, and after a moment Fenris reaches out to take it. "Thank you, but we’ve met already."

“You don’t remember us, do you?” Hawke’s tone is amused as she steps closer to Markus, eyes flitting over him.

“Umm, I’m afraid not, serah. Have we met before?” He glances from Hawke to Fenris to Sebastian and back, licking his lips and knitting his brows.

Hawke nods. “Outside the Chantry, when the Prince was singing. You tried to keep Fenris here from going inside.”

The color drains from Markus’ face, and Sebastian sees satisfaction on Hawke and Fenris’ faces. She tips her chin up, looking down her nose at him even as he stands taller than her.

“As I understand it,” Sebastian steps in to take over, prompted by a pang of sympathy for the man. “You did allow them in after a moment’s negotiations.”

Markus nods, glancing back towards the building behind them. “The Knight-Commander wasn’t happy to see us back at the barracks, Your Highness.”

“Not so upset about it that he came to me with it, however, and Hawke told me nothing of it until today,” Sebastian reassures him. This is not at all the introduction that he hoped for, for any of them, and he would like to make a fresh start, if possible.

Markus looks at each of them again, though his gaze lingers on Hawke, searching her face until she turns away, lowering her eyes. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness, but is that not what you’re here to discuss, then?”   


Sebastian pauses at that, furrowing his brow as he searches Markus’ face for any sign of deception. He finds it odd that Markus is so unaware of the letters he’s sent. The implication that they were answered with no input from him is concerning. “No,” he replies with a slight shake of his head. “I would say that I am more surprised that you don’t know why I’m here, but having met the Knight-Captain, I have to wonder."   


Markus purses his lips, nodding and looking down. "He, well, he liked your father a great deal, as I understand it, was looking forward to your brother's ascension. Forgive me ser," he rushes to add. "I shouldn't speak of such things. I am sorry for your loss."   


_ It was your loss as well. _ Sebastian can feel the words in his mouth and has to fight to swallow them down. "Thank you, but it's all right,” he says, the words coming slowly as he realizes the truth behind them. “It's good to know that they’re remembered, and I hope to be able to live up to their legacy." He casts around for a moment. "Is there somewhere we could talk privately for a moment?"   


Markus frowns as he considers. He looks towards the barracks, then back at Sebastian. "This is about the best that we can do. Templar barracks aren’t built for privacy, even if there are only a handful of us in the city. Can I ask what this is about, Your Highness?"   


Sebastian shifts his weight, uncomfortable with the idea of doing this out in front of the barracks. There is no one around, but he can not help but feel exposed, even with Hawke and Fenris by him. The trees rustle above them, painting all four of them with dappled sunlight, but apart from that it’s quiet. The Chantry is not so well-visited these days, and they are some distance from the markets and busier parts of the city.    


"That you may, Markus.” He takes a few steps towards the trunk of the tallest tree. It’s not much in terms of shelter, but somehow it feels more secluded, easing his mind if only a little. “It concerns your family. May I ask what you know of them?”    


Markus' countenance darkens instantly, but there is confusion in his face as well, in the line between his brows and the downturned corners of his mouth. "My mother was a mage. I was conceived outside of the Circle, but she was brought in before I was born. I was taken from her, given to the Chantry to be raised. I’m told she died in the fire. What else is there to know?" He delivers the information like a field report, flat until almost the end, when anger starts to creep into his words.   


"Did you ever see your mother again? After you were born, did the Sisters ever take you to the Circle?" Hawke steps in, and Sebastian is startled but grateful, as he is unsure how to continue in the face of Markus' clear disdain for his mother. The woman that Sebastian met was warm, sweet, and would have been an exceptional mother to him, but Markus knows none of this, only that she was a mage and that she abandoned him. His Templar training has poisoned him against her, and Sebastian's heart aches for the both of them.   


"Why would I have visited her? She wanted nothing to do with me, and she was mad, they've told me." He lowers his voice, and his tone is sadder when he continues. "No one wanted me to know at first, but I guess I started asking as I got older. I wasn't allowed to see her, they said. It wouldn't be good for her or for me. How can it be bad for a mother to see her son, if it’s what they both want?"   


Hawke and Sebastian exchange a look, and he sees that Markus sees, that he knows that they know something. The tale was difficult to read, and is proving to be even harder to tell, especially to one of the people involved. It should not be anyone’s reality, and it should not be a secret kept from someone for so long.   


"Your mother Juliana was taken into the Circle by Templars who said that she was possessed," Sebastian explains. He is slow and deliberate, does his best to choose his words carefully. He does not wish to actively vilify the order that Markus is a part of, but the role they played in this can not be left unspoken. "They said that she was telling lies to anyone who would listen, lies about you." He sighs. "They weren't lies. Your mother was an honest woman who told the truth, but the person who could have saved her was gone, too far away to protect her." 

Sebastian furrows his brows and watches, waiting for a response. For all that he wants to be clear and direct, he cannot help but shy away from the truth of his role in this when it comes to the telling of it. Even if Sebastian was still in Starkhaven when Markus was born, he was lost to his family, to those who would help him, and to others in his life. That he did not notice Juliana’s disappearance is a regret he will carry with him for the rest of his life.   


Markus shakes his head. "I don't understand what you're saying. What do you mean, accused of possession?"   


Sebastian runs a hand through his hair and takes a breath that turns into a sigh. "Your mother was telling people that your father was the Prince of Starkhaven. Your mother... was rather free with her company before she was taken to the Circle.” Even if there is nothing illegal about the way she lived, there is still an air of shame to it, and Starkhaven has always been a pious city. Markus frowns, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he takes in this new information. “No one believed her, and when it was discovered that she was an apostate, they said that the story about the Prince was put into her by a demon."   


"How do you know all this?" Markus demands. He takes a step forward and Sebastian has to fight against instinct to stand his ground and not back away.   


"Because I've seen the records,” he explains, doing what he can to keep his voice calm and level even as grief and anger and sadness for them all rise up inside him. “They were salvaged from the fire, records of your mother being brought to the Circle, of you being taken from her, and the Rite of Tranquility being performed the day after your birth, when they were certain you would not be in danger.”   


“But-- how do you know she wasn't possessed? How do you know she was telling the truth?" Markus shakes his head, looking back towards the barracks. “Tranquility is reserved for those mages who are a danger to themselves and others. If the Rite was used, there must have been good reason.”   


That Markus should want there to be reasonable doubt is understandable, and Sebastian almost wishes he could tell him that Juliana was in any danger, but the woman he knew was stable and calm. "I know because I was the Prince of Starkhaven that she meant. I was with your mother, Markus." Sebastian takes a breath, lets it start to sink in for him before continuing. "When your mother said that your father was the Prince, she was telling the truth. It's me, I am your father."   


Everyone is silent. Markus stares at Sebastian. Sebastian rubs a hand over his jaw, fighting to hold Markus' gaze when he wants to fall to his knees before him and beg forgiveness for all that he cost the man before him. Behind him, Hawke's armor rustles as she shifts her weight, and at the corner of his vision Fenris is waiting, hand on his sword, in case Markus should not take this news well.   


"They sent you away," Markus whispers, finally, confusion and frustration in his voice. "The older Templars, they talk about it. The guard collected you and took you out of the city."   


Sebastian nods. "I didn't know about your mother at the time. I was promiscuous, and when your mother passed out of my life I thought nothing of it. I had no idea that she was taken to the Circle. And I received little news from Starkhaven after I was taken to Kirkwall." It sounds like an excuse, and it's not the apology he wants it to be. Apologizing will change nothing; neither will more details. Markus does not need to know that his grandparents knew of him all his life, knew of the fate of his mother and did nothing.    


"You didn't know,” Markus replies, a quick, off-handed absolution that hits Sebastian like a blow to the chest. “You didn't know, so you never came back. And this woman?" He looks down at his hands. "Tranquil? My mother?"   


"It's likely that's why you weren't allowed to see her," Hawke offers in a soft voice, and Sebastian's heart swells in his chest at how gentle she is with this man she barely knows. So few would suspect her of being capable of this compassion, particularly with a Templar. 

When Markus looks up again, he is pale, all color gone from his face, and Sebastian sees his lower lip trembling. Markus looks down at his hands again, flexing his fingers within his gauntlets, and Sebastian tries to imagine him holding the brand. There were no mages made Tranquil during the Circle’s short resurrection in the city, but since the start of the war apostates were found and captured, and sometimes they fought back. 

A shadow passes over Markus’ face and his hands fold into fists. “If my mother was an abomination, then what happened to her was for the best. It is not to me to question the Templars who decided her fate.”

Hawke shakes her head and holds a hand out towards him, but Markus takes a step back, glaring at her, and her mouth snaps shut, her rebuttal unspoken. “Of course you would side with the mage, Champion, no matter what state she was in.” His eyes turn to Sebastian, cold and hard and certain. “Both of you would, I suppose.” He shakes his head and sighs, running a hand back over his hair. “I never wanted this meeting.”

“What?” Sebastian leans in, unsure he’s heard Markus correctly. 

Markus nods, and the smile he gives is not only rueful, but borders on a sneer. “Did you really think it was the Knight-Captain that kept you away, Your Highness? He’s a good man to help me like that, to take the fall and make up all manner of excuses. He’s been more of a father to me than anyone else in my life.”

The words find their mark, and Sebastian flinches, looking away, not wanting his hurt and confusion to show. He hasn’t had a chance to be a father to Markus, or to any of them. It’s one of the wrongs he’s hoping to right, though whether or not he can still remains to be seen.

“It would have been impolite to refuse outright, but I wanted nothing to do with a meeting with you.” Markus throws his arms out and shrugs, pacing in a small circle where he stands. “I thought it had to do with the day at the Chantry, though the Knight-Captain wasn’t convinced. He wouldn’t tell me what he thought it was, just didn’t think that that was worth a royal summons.” Plated shoulders heave as Markus sighs, shaking his head. “Even knowing the reason now, my mind isn’t changed. I won’t call it a trip wasted, but if your hope was some happy reunion, then I have to disappoint you.”

Hawke looks from Sebastian to Markus with furrowed brows, and when Sebastian fails to reply, she steps in. “You could be the heir to the throne of Starkhaven, and you don’t want it?” She asks, incredulous. 

Markus shakes his head again. “I already know what I want to do with my life. My duty is to protect this city and its people from magic.” He spits the last word out, looking at Sebastian even though Hawke was the one who asked him. “And you brought the worst enemy Kirkwall’s Templars ever saw with you when you came back here.” There is fire in his eyes when he turns to look at Hawke again, and she can only shake her head slowly, holding her hands out and taking a step back. 

She looks from Markus to Sebastian with wide, fearful eyes, and Sebastian moves to her side as she speaks. “There was more going on in Kirkwall than I think you know, Markus. It wasn’t all the Templars’ fault, but it wasn’t the mages, either.”

“Tell me then,” Markus snarls, “which side was it that blew up the Chantry?”

Hawke opens her mouth to respond, only to close it again and turn away, arms folded over her chest. It’s an unfair question and they all know it, especially posed by someone who wasn’t there, who never met Anders or Meredith, Elthina or Orsino. Part of Sebastian is discouraged to see that this is what has come out of Anders’ action. It was not unpredictable, but it is disappointing.

“I thought when I contacted the Seekers that they would take her with them on their mission, that Starkhaven would be rid of her and safer for it.” Markus starts off muttering, almost to himself, but his voice and posture gain confidence as he continues. There is genuine confusion in his tone, as if cannot understand how his plan failed to work. “I never anticipated that she would turn up here, outside our barracks.”

Sebastian’s chest tightens so that it aches when he tries to draw a breath. “That was you?” 

Markus nods. “What I said before. I lied. I did recognize the two of you.” He points at Hawke, then turns to point at Fenris. “I remember you from the Chantry, the way that you humiliated me in front of the people outside, in front of my superiors. All so that some elves could go listen to the Prince sing, as if they even understand what the Chant is about.”

Fenris bristles, the scrape of his armor audible enough to make both Sebastian and Markus pause. “We are all the Maker’s children, serah,” Sebastian reminds him, not unkindly, but leaving no room for the argument to be continued. “How are we to spread the Maker’s Light if we deny access to those we consider to be in darkness?”

Sebastian looks past Markus to offer an apologetic glance to Fenris, who meets his eyes only long enough to shake his head and turn away.

Hawke’s heel scrapes in the dirt as she swivels again to face them. “Wait. I want to understand. Are you telling me that if I hadn’t been here, that you would have accepted the summons to the Keep immediately?”

Markus nods. “A royal summons is not easily ignored, Champion. The Knight-Captain was kind enough to make excuses so that I never actually needed to say no, but had His Highness been alone in the Keep, I would have arrived after the first invitation. Though knowing what I know now, the outcome would likely have been the same.”

Hawke nods back at him, lifting her chin more than lowering her head in the gesture, her gaze turned inward, and she makes no reply. 

“So while I thank you for the information, Your Highness, if there is nothing else?”

Sebastian is as deflated as Hawke looks, and he cannot find a reason in himself to keep Markus there any longer. “You are dismissed, ser,” he offers. 

Any gratitude he feels for the low, elegant bow Markus gives him before leaving is overshadowed by his frustration and disappointment. He watches as Markus heads to the barracks, his cloak trailing out behind him. Fenris narrowly avoids a collision as Markus passes him, broadening his shoulders and his strides in an unmistakable display that leaves Fenris glaring after him.

Bitterness wells up in the back of Sebastian’s throat. Was all of this a fool’s errand, to think that any of them would welcome him with open hearts? Things went well with Maresa, but Delphine was an unpleasant surprise, to say nothing of today. Part of the loss he feels is of his own making, he knows; imagining a Templar as heir to the Vael throne was enticing, even after all that he faced in Kirkwall. Surely Markus would be different, more tolerant and kinder, but the training Templars receive is the same in all of Thedas. Markus would not have made it this far if he was not prepared to kill mages in the name of the Maker.

Hawke starts to move away, pausing when she and Fenris are side by side. They exchange a glance that Sebastian cannot translate, but then both look back to him expectantly. 

“Right,” he sighs, setting off to catch up to them. There’s nothing more to be done here, and lingering outside the barracks might eventually draw unwanted attention. He casts one last look over his shoulder as he walks away, but the door is closed and the guard at her post is unmoving. 

Sebastian tries unsuccessfully to catch Hawke’s hand in his own, frowning but saying nothing when he sees her rubbing at her knuckles. He is not the only one the meeting was stressful for, but this is also the last time he will have to put any of them through this. He finds little relief in the thought, but some small lightness in the idea that they can start to move forward from this chapter of his past. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! It really means a lot to me to see what people think of this story, and while I know I don't always keep up at replies, know that I read every comment and always want to respond. Sometimes I just need to find the words. 
> 
> Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	28. The Cost of Aiding Kirkwall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delphine continues to interfere in matters both person and royal, and Hawke points out an unintended consequence of Sebastian taking Delphine's advice.

“You're wrong. You'll never have him.”

Sebastian pauses on his way into the kitchen, fingertips set lightly on the worn wood of the door. He should probably interrupt, or walk away. Eavesdropping is beyond impolite, but he’s never heard Hawke speak like this before. Her voice is unmistakable, but the anger in it is new, different than he’s used to, though he can’t place why. 

“I've seen the way he is with you,” Delphine replies, and where Hawke’s voice is jagged and icy, hers is smooth, imperious. “He doesn't know what to do around you. Me, he knows. He remembers. We had something you'll never have.”

She’s not wrong, but the thought makes his stomach turn. He is not proud of his past, especially not when it can be thrown in Hawke’s face like this. It is his truth, not a weapon to be used against others, particularly not to make Hawke worth less than everything to him.

“I don't mean because of me,” Hawke continues, a tone of condescension coming through. “I mean because of Sebastian. He won't lay with you, you have to understand that.”

A smug huff, and the sound of ceramic on the countertop. “We’ll see.”

“No, you won't.” He shouldn’t smile, but there’s a change, and this sounds like the Hawke he knows, as if she’s bargaining with some Darktown slaver for the lives of mages, already knowing how it will end, three steps ahead of everyone around her. He can see her in his mind, pacing, gesturing. Whatever it was that took her confidence away a moment ago, she’s starting to regain it. “Look, I don't like you, and I don't trust you, but he does. You would be making a terrible mistake to take advantage of that.”

Delphine hums contentedly. “He does trust me. And listens to me, as well, more than he listens to you, I think. This alliance with the Inquisition, for example. It will be good for us.”

Sebastian brings a hand to his mouth. He received answer from the Inquisition this morning, and Delphine only knew of it because she was there when the message arrived. He’d thought nothing of it at the time and planned to tell Hawke the next time he saw her. Hearing Delphine throw it in her face like this leaves him suspicious of her motives, but too late to do anything about it.

“What do you mean, alliance with the Inquisition?” Hawke’s question comes slowly. 

“Basti has extended Starkhaven’s hand in friendship to the Inquisition,” Delphine explains in a lofty tone. “They are gaining power by the day, so it will be good to be on their side. Already people will be speaking of Starkhaven, magnanimous and generous, a model city. The Inquisition sat up and took notice of us.”

Sebastian bristles behind the door. For him, there is no us that includes Delphine, and that his actions cause her to believe that there is frustrates him, but it’s no one’s fault but his own.

“They noticed Sebastian,” Hawke corrects her. “I doubt they know you had anything to do with it.”

“Perhaps not,” Delphine concedes. “But he does, and that is what is important to me. He will start to seek my counsel, and then he will start to seek other things as well, and with me he will find them.”

“Delphine, please, listen to yourself,” Hawke sighs. “Sebastian is a good, kind man who opened his home to you. To all of us. He has more faith than anyone I've ever seen, not just in the Maker but in people. To try to seduce him like that, it's  _ wrong _ . You can't-- You shouldn't.” Another sigh, and the creak of a cabinet door. “If you care about him at all, you have to accept that he will never leave Andraste’s side for your bed. That will always come first.”

“You don't know him like I do,” Delphine says, haughty and cold, horrible in her certainty. The worst of it is that she’s correct; it is as if Hawke and Delphine know two completely different men who share a name and face. Sebastian does not want to be the man that Delphine knew, the one that she thinks she can find within him again. 

His frustration is rising, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can stand by and listen. He had no idea when he brought Delphine to the Keep that this was what she had in mind, though looking back it ought to have been clear that she was planning from the first moment, throwing herself at him, kissing him and flirting. Hawke knew, somehow. She’s suspected, if not this, then something. She tried to warn him, as gently as she could, about the risk that he could be taken advantage of, and he dismissed her concerns. 

“You're right, I don't,” Hawke continues. “You don’t know him like I do, either. You knew a boy who looked for love at the bottom of a bottle and measured his worth by the notches on his bedpost. He was wild, but he was weak. He'd tell you the same if you asked, but you won’t. I know a man who knows his worth, who lives for others because he's found he has so much to give, and it gives him strength. You would try to lure him back to a place he is happier for having left behind. That's cruel, do you not see that?”

A door slams within the room and Sebastian recoils, afraid to be found listening. The door to the kitchen remains still and a flush of shame rushes over his skin, that he should stand in silence while Hawke so vocally defends him. He’s moved by her words, regrets that there will likely be no way for him to tell her without admitting to eavesdropping.

“You are jealous.” He can hear the grin in Delphine’s voice and can all but imagine the way she stands and looks down her nose at Hawke, and his lip pulls into a sneer at the picture in his mind. “He already listens to me.”

“No.” Hawke’s voice wavers, and something tightens in Sebastian’s chest at the sound of it. “I’m furious.”

“Because you know I’m right,” Delphine continues, as if Hawke hadn’t spoke. “I bore his child. Because of me, he has contacted the powerful Inquisition to offer them an alliance, which will be good for him, good for Starkhaven. Because I suggested it. Not you. Me.”’

There’s quiet in the kitchen, and Sebastian wraps his hand around the door handle to open it, but then Hawke is speaking again, her voice much lower this time.

“He doesn’t need the Inquisition in order to help Starkhaven.” Sebastian barely hears her, holds his breath to catch her words. “He’s a fine Prince on his own, without them. Setting him up to play politics like this is dangerous. He’s a Brother, and the Chantry renounced the Inquisition.”

“There are plenty within the Chantry who see that the Inquisition can do some good, and he will be aligned with them.” Delphine clicks her tongue. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing, but I am from Orlais, dog-girl. I know how to play The Game, and Sebastian will need a wife who can do these things for him.”

“Is that really what you think is going to happen here?” Hawke interjects, expressing the same shock that spreads through him like ice along his nerves. To think that Delphine actually believes that such an outcome is possible leaves him feeling ill, questioning every move he’s made since he brought her here, that she would have any confidence at all in the idea that he would take her for his bride. 

“Why, you think he will marry you instead?” Delphine’s laugh is a bark, arrogant and mocking.

Hawke sighs in frustration. “That’s not what I--”

“What are you,” Delphine continues, voice dripping with condescension, “a champion of a city that you saved so completely that you had to flee for your lives? A Fereldan mercenary whore who--”

The door to the gardens swings open so hard that it bangs on the hinges and Sebastian hops backwards at the last moment to avoid being hit, only to stare in silence as the kitchen door remains closed. He gathers himself, taking a deep breath, calming his nerves and asking Andraste for temperance before pulling the door open. The kitchen is flooded with warm sunlight and Delphine is standing by the counter island, a tea service arranged on a large silver tray before her. The door on the far side of the kitchen stands open, and he can see Hawke beyond the opening, her outline hazy where she stands in the grass by the archery targets.

Delphine is smirking, her head turned to watch Hawke with sharp satisfaction that makes her look older than her years, the lines around her mouth deepened to shadows. Sebastian clears his throat and her expression falters to wide-eyed surprise for a moment when she turns and sees him, only to settle into something darker, one hand coming to play with a necklace that hangs low on her chest. She looks up at him through heavy lashes, and he marvels at how easy it was for him to fall for this when he was younger. Now he wants nothing more than for her to be still. The last remnants of his goodwill followed Hawke into the gardens, and there is nothing that Delphine can do to change his mind. 

“Basti,” she coos, “I didn’t see you there.” She reaches out to set a finger on his chest and he takes a step away. “I was just going to take tea in my chambers. Would you--”

“You are no longer welcome here, Delphine.” He clasps his hands behind his back and frowns down at her, struggling to summon the sort of authoritative superiority that he knows he will need for her to respect his decision. In truth she has already overstayed her welcome; it is only his soft heart that allowed her to remain as long as she has. Every trespassing touch and pointed comment has led to this, and he can not continue to abide her presence. “You may take the things that I gave you as well as all that you brought with you, and you may take the help of my servants to gather your belongings and move them back to your home, but at nightfall I will send Fenris and a guard to your chambers. If you are there, they will drag you from the Keep and leave you outside the gates.”

Her eyes flare, all attempts at sultriness wiped away as she listens to him. The words register, but there is no fear or confusion in her expression. Instead he sees her accept this as a challenge, and he pushes out a breath in something harder than a sigh. She will not win.

“Sebastian--”

“The term of address is Your Highness.” He tips his chin up and looks down at her, unmoved.

The reprimand gives her pause, and she takes a moment to collect herself, sighing out a deep breath, the very picture of a woman put upon by those who do not understand her. “Your Highness,” she starts again, shaking her head and tilting her chin down. The look she gives him this time is fiery and accusatory. “You can not just invite me into your home and--”

“You presume to tell the Prince of Starkhaven how to run his household?” Her audacity is breathtaking, even more than he could have anticipated from her, and Sebastian balls his hands into fists at his back to keep himself still before her.

Delphine’s head falls to the side and she smiles at him, one more try at flirtation to get her way. “Darling, surely we can talk about this.”

He arches an eyebrow at her. The term of endearment leaves his skin clammy and his tongue is thick in his mouth when he speaks. “No.”

“Is this because of her?” Her mask slips again when she asks, gesturing over her shoulder to the garden door, her quick smile turning to a sneer.

“It is because of you, Delphine.” He sees now that he is looking into the face of a stranger. She only looks like someone he once knew, shares her name. “You seem to think that I’m unhappy in the life I lead now, that I need to be brought back to who I was before I left Starkhaven.”

She clears her throat and shifts her weight, and Sebastian hopes that he will not regret continuing the conversation instead of just sending her away. “I have noticed that you are lacking things in your life that you once took joy in,” she explains, “and that is a shame, when there are women here who are so willing to give you the pleasure that you lack.”

Her comment gives him pause. “What in my life have you seen that makes you think that I lack for any sort of pleasure?” 

“You are a handsome man in your prime, Prince of a great city, and yet you turn over stones and shine lights in dark corners to look for bastards to call your heirs, all while you remain unattached and sleep on your own at night.” Delphine folds her arms across her chest and shoots out one hip, raising an eyebrow when she looks at him as if she’s made some great revelatory point that Sebastian never considered. 

“I am Prince,” he agrees, “but that is not all I am. Do you not think that I’m capable of making my own choices about my life?”

Delphine rolls her eyes and gives the smallest shake of her head. “Yes, this silly business with the Chantry. You know, with your family gone, there is no need to persist with that.”

Frustration flares in Sebastian’s chest, and he clenches his jaw to keep from shouting at her. All the time she’s spent in the Keep and she seems to have learned nothing of him and his heart, to say nothing of her flippant mention of the greatest loss in his life.

“As Brother in the Chantry I have taken several vows. The vow of poverty means that I take no wages for my work, and that much of my family’s estate has been sold to improve the lives of others. The vow of service means that I spend time at the Chantry, taking confessions, giving food to the hungry and hope to the hopeless.” He draws a breath. “There is also a vow of chastity. I have given my heart and body to Andraste’s service, and can take no bride but her. I would give the best life I can to those children I have already fathered, but I will never have any more. I find pleasure in other things now, and I am happier for it.”

She draws a breath, and Sebastian holds up a hand to stop her. “I am happy, Delphine. You seemed determined to ruin that, and I will not allow it. I can have Granger arrange comfortable passage to Orlais for you if you wish, or you can stay in the city and the crown will ensure that you keep your home, but you are not welcome at the Keep, and I never want to see you again.” He looks past her at Hawke. “I would ask you to apologize, but I don’t trust you to be kind. It’s best you just leave. Quietly,” he adds, not quite growling as he continues to look away from her.

He hears her sniff and sees movement out of the corner of his eye when she swishes past him, and he waits until he hears the creak of the kitchen door before he relaxes, blowing out a breath and setting a hand on the counter for support. This is not what he wanted, every turn taking him further away from the illusion he painted in his mind of a Keep filled with loved ones again, people he could trust and care about, a family rebuilt, better than the one he lost. Perhaps it is impossible; perhaps he is trying to regain something that he never had to begin with. 

Sebastian makes his way out to the gardens, dragging his feet in the grass and brushing his hands against his thighs to make sure that he’s heard. Hawke stiffens first at the sound of someone approaching, but when she looks back over her shoulder, she offers him a hollow smile, her eyes flicking away to look to the empty kitchen, then back to him, one brow raised in question.

“Hawke.” He spreads his hands, unsure where to start. There is so much he feels like he ought to say, and yet he is frustrated with himself, that he’s put them in this position again. 

“You heard that, did you?” She lowers her head, the toe of her boot suddenly very interesting among the low grass of the manicured lawn.

“I heard some of it,” he replies, nodding. “You said nothing wrong. You were right about her from the start, and I should have listened to you. I’m humbled by your defense of me; it is more than I deserve.”

He sees her eyebrows pop up as she rolls her eyes at his concession about Delphine. He knows all too well that sometimes there is no vindication in being right, and that it does not undo the damage that’s been done.

Moving closer, Sebastian ducks his head to catch her gaze and hold it. “What she called you. You know I don’t think that, don’t you? I could never.”

One shoulder rises and falls in a half-hearted shrug as Hawke looks at him. “That is more or less how we met,” she says dryly. “You needed a service performed, and you paid me for it.”

He frowns, straightening away from her. He is still working to learn how to reach her when she turns her pain into something sharp, a weapon to use on herself as well as others. “That’s not how I see it at all. You helped me when I needed it most, and you continue to do so.” When she turns to take a step away he follows, staying her sight line. “You have more honor and goodness in a strand of your hair than Delphine has in all her person. She would never stop to help a stranger in need, and she has no right to judge you.”

Hawke nods slowly, her lips pressed together to a thin line. “I suppose that sort of ruthlessness she has is what makes her such a good adviser, then.”

Sebastian starts to shake his head, but she continues, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. “You contacted the Inquisition to offer friendship from Starkhaven on her suggestion.”

“Yes,” he sighs, taking the letter from his pocket and running a thumb over the red wax seal with the Inquisition symbol stamped into it. The answer came more promptly than he expected, and while he always intended to tell Hawke that he reached out to them, he anticipated having more time before she found out about the letter. The page delivered it to him personally, though, leaving him no choice but to read it in front of Delphine earlier that morning. “She walked into a meeting I was having with Granger about Kirkwall and suggested it,” he explains as he tucks the paper away again.

“Does Varric know you’ve asked for this?” Her gaze moves from him the archery targets, and she scatters the bits of shredded grass she was holding in her hands. 

Sebastian shrugs. He has no idea what the Inquisition might have told Varric. The thought crossed his mind to check with Kirkwall’s Viscount first, but given how the rest of his correspondence has been received, in the end he’d decided against it, figuring it would likely make no difference. “Varric is with the Inquisition. He hasn’t been answering my letters, though. Do you think this will get his attention?” He asks, turning to give her a grin more sly than he feels. The intention with his contact with the Inquisition is not to wave a flag in Varric’s direction, but if that should be one of the consequences, then he can’t see how that would be a bad thing.

In front of him, however, is a problem much more easily discernible. There is no hint of humor in Hawke’s eyes when he looks at her, and she shakes her head at his grin. “He won’t like you interfering,” she grumbles, but he knows what she really means, and it bothers him to hear it: Hawke doesn’t like that he’s interfering, never mind Varric.

“He’ll like the Inquisition’s soldiers and supplies well enough,” he replies, doing his best to keep his tone light. “And if he doesn’t, the people of Kirkwall will. I thought the Inquisition might be able to assist with the rebuilding of the city, but first we need to forge a relationship with them.”

Sebastian doesn’t intend to brush off her concern, but Varric is a practical man. If he hasn’t already asked for assistance restoring the city, then perhaps he will at least be able to support the request from Starkhaven. They hadn’t been the closest of friends, but Sebastian can’t imagine that would lead Varric to turning away help when it arrives at his doorstep, particularly when the help is coming from an organization that Varric now freely supports.

Nonetheless, it feels strange to hear the words in his mouth. There’s sense in them, but it’s unfamiliar terrain for him to find himself arguing in favor of something against Hawke, who is not at all interested in backing down. 

“How does this work with your position in the Chantry?” She pushes, striding forward to round on him, settling her weight, hands on her hips. “You know that the Chantry has disavowed the Inquisition.”

Sebastian sighs inwardly. Her argument makes perfect sense and he doubts it will appease her concerns to hear that he’s already considered it. “Their gold is still the same color and still just as useful, as are their soldiers, some of whom can surely call Kirkwall home. Knight-Captain Cullen is the Commander of the Inquisition’s armed forces, and he saw first-hand what happened there. The restoration of Kirkwall is outside of whatever complaints the Chantry may have about the Inquisition, and this request, when it comes, will come from me as Prince of a neighboring city-state in the Free Marches. Helping Kirkwall will help Starkhaven as well, Hawke, do you not see that?” 

More of these awful political words, and they still taste wrong on his tongue. Hawke is a better diplomat than he will ever be, and the points he’s making feel artificial and contrived when he spouts them. The suggestion seemed logical at the time, seemed politically advantageous as well as good for the people of the Free Marches when it was brought to him, and he had no qualms about taking it. As Hawke continues to object, however, he finds his resolve failing him and has to wonder if there is some part in this that he overlooked.

Hawke pauses where she’s been pacing in front of him, sighing and shifting her weight as she lets her arms fall to her sides. In the moment, Sebastian takes the opportunity to properly look at her for what feels like the first time since he came outside; he’s either avoided her eyes or felt like she’s worked to keep herself turned away from him. 

She is stricken, all color drained from her face, and her hands are balled to fists so tightly that they tremble at her sides. She leans forward as she speaks, almost looking up at him to search his face with wide eyes, every word stressed and deliberate. “They were hunting me, Sebastian. They  _ came here to find me.  _ They took Varric to the Conclave as a prisoner. Do you really think they’ll help with nothing in return, just because you asked?”

The grass and earth seem to fall out from underneath him, all his certainty about this move disappearing as he takes in the panic in her eyes, each word she says removing a stone from the foundation on which he stands to land heavy on his chest instead. Even now, she looks prepared to flee at the slightest provocation, and indeed, when he steps towards her, she moves away, shaking her head. 

“I didn’t think.” He sighs, spreading his hands wide, then running one back through his hair. It seemed like the perfect idea at the time, a way to foster an alliance and gain much-needed help for Kirkwall. That this should be a consequence was not something he considered, and now he sees that it was a mistake to do this without consulting her. “I’m sorry, Hawke.”

She shakes her head slowly, deflating, but no longer shying away when he approaches her. “I wish you’d told me. And please don’t think that I don’t want to help them, it’s not that at all. When we talked about this, I was all in favor of Starkhaven sending forces to Kirkwall to help them.” She throws her hands out to the sides. “We--  _ I _ already did this once. I don’t want to do it again.”

Sebastian wishes he had as well. It is obvious now, when he’s here with her, that he should ask, or tell her that it’s been on his mind. Cassandra has already been here once, in service of the Divine, seeking Hawke to lead their Inquisition. Now they have their Inquisitor, but that doesn’t mean that the Seeker is done seeking. The matter seemed like one of utmost urgency at the time, that they needed to contact the Inquisition before Tantervale or one of the other cities did so. He acted accordingly, but sees clearly the consequences of his haste. 

Hawke runs a hand over her hair to stop at the back of her neck, sweeping her braid forward her shoulder. “When last we talked about it, you were planning to send your own soldiers, your own workers to Kirkwall to help them.”

“Delphine suggested it,” he replies, hesitant, knowing that her name will not help in this conversation, “as a way to improve Starkhaven’s reputation as well as gain resources for Kirkwall above and beyond what we can offer on our own.”

A stormcloud rolls in over Hawke’s face, the sharp brightness of her fear darkening but not softening, seeming to dim the light around them. She sucks at her teeth as she looks away from him, rolling her eyes. “I know she did. Of course it would be her.”

The reaction saddens but does not surprise him. That the two of them don’t see eye to eye was obvious from the first, but Sebastian had no choice but to offer Delphine the same courtesy as Maresa, the same courtesy he would have offered his son if he’d thought the man would take it. Hawke is suspicious of Delphine’s motives, and Sebastian himself has tired of her attempts to romance him, but that does not mean that she didn’t deserve the home he’s offered to her.

“You give her too much credit,” he replies. He understands her mistrust, but until today he could not claim to share it. He really wanted to believe that Delphine meant well under the bluster and endless flirtations, but he sees now how dangerous and naive he was to ignore the warnings he was given, both from Hawke and from his own heart.

“So do you,” Hawke fires back, “and yet at the same time you give her too little.” She purses her lips and shakes her head as she looks at him. “It must have been quite the meeting the two of you had.”

He has no good answer for that. It was not so much a meeting as Delphine barging in while he was discussing plans for Kirkwall with Granger. She’d come laden with a tray full of tea and small cakes, but also with ideas. Granger was surprisingly keen to listen, and so Sebastian stayed, and found himself swayed. Never for a moment had he thought to exclude Hawke from any of it. His desire to help their homes - Kirkwall and Starkhaven both - simply got ahead of his intentions to share this with her. 

“I sent her away.” Sebastian gestures back toward the door. “I heard what she said to you, the way she spoke of you and I, as if she had any right to come between us. She has until nightfall to leave and not come back.”

“She’s your family.” Hawke’s reply is immediate, and surprises Sebastian in its sincerity.

He shakes his head. “I want no part of someone who would say such things to you, and means to try to get me to change who I am. What connected her to me has been gone for more than a decade. I wanted to help her, and I will, but not under this roof. I don’t want her where you are, where I am.”  _ Where I am with you,  _ he thinks. There is truth in every word he speaks, and he wants only to set her mind at ease and reassure her, but none of this absolves him of the guilt of making her feel unsafe in what is meant to be her home.

Sebastian moves towards her, pausing when she turns away. “Hawke, you’re safe here. It was only a letter. It won’t bring the Inquisition to our door.”

Hawke looks at him out of the corner of her eye. “You don’t know that. You don’t know what they could ask in exchange. If they come here, will you hide me again, or will you let them see that you lied to them before? How will that help your alliance?”

He reaches out and catches her chin with his fingers, turning her to look at him. She offers no resistance when he takes her face in his hands, looking at the fear and uncertainty that he’s been avoiding facing.

“If Seeker Pentaghast and Cullen brought all the forces of the Inquisition to bear on the doors of the Keep itself, I would not let them have you.”

She rests her cheek against his hand and sighs, and for a moment he believes that he might be forgiven, but when she opens her eyes again, the darkness is still there. “If you’d asked me in the first place and not run off at Delphine’s insistence, you wouldn’t have to worry about the Inquisition’s forces. And neither would I.” 

Hawke straightens away from him, looking him over before brushing past him and heading back inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! It really means a lot to me to see what people think of this story, and while I know I don't always keep up at replies, know that I read every comment and always want to respond. Sometimes I just need to find the words. 
> 
> Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	29. Heart of a Champion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke has never been one to turn away when called on to help, but this time leaves Sebastian lost and worried. A conversation with Bethany gives him clarity in some things, but not in all.

The glass jar is heavy as Sebastian lifts it to his nose and sniffs at the thick, bubbly brown sludge. The scent is slightly sweet and tangy, perfect for acting as a starter for bread. The jar scrapes against the stone countertop when he sets it down before turning back to the cupboard for the rest of the supplies. Most mornings the scent is warm and welcoming, but today it all but turns his stomach, agitating the sourness that refuses to leave the back of his throat. 

It’s a strange thing to be nostalgic for in such a place as he finds himself now, he supposes - a bit of flour and water and the life that lived within it, but if it was to be called alive, then he’d kept it alive for years, the closest thing he had to a pet until Hawke’s Mabari followed them to Starkhaven. He didn’t understand at first and thought that the Sisters were treating the whole thing with an overblown sort of reverence as they explained about feeding and checking in on it every day. 

It wasn’t as if he’d never made bread before, but he’d never known what sort of work went into the jars of wet, runny dough that the cooks kept on a separate shelf, each marked with their names. It was first in Kirkwall that he learned about the life in a loaf of bread, and the care required to make sure it was there when he needed it. It took a couple false starts, but after a few months, Sebastian had his own jar on the shelf in the Kirkwall Chantry. The tradition followed him here to Starkhaven; his jar, as well as Maresa’s and Neriah’s, are marked with small paper tags with their names.

_ Family is important. It’s everything. _

He sighs to himself as he sets to work, his hands desperate for something to occupy him even as his mind floats in a haze, detached from the emotions that churn within him. Measuring flour and water comes with a practiced ease, his muscles recalling well the weight of things from endless Chantry mornings spent baking. Or at least, he thought they would be endless at the time. Then his family was murdered, and Hawke came, and everything changed. Something like baking bread was a daily chore for him before, though it was one that he enjoyed. It is only his new lifestyle that turns time alone in the kitchen into a luxury.

Hawke came, and everything changed. Now, Hawke is gone, having left before dawn with no more goodbye than a letter slipped under the door to Sebastian’s room. It lies open on the countertop nearby, threatening and sympathizing with him at the same time as he finds himself suspended; his life is not so changed yet by it, but there is all manner of danger in the words she’s written, and inside him he reacts to all of it at once, mourning and fearing and raging, a storm trapped in a bottle.

_ My dear Sebastian, _

_ Varric has requested my help on behalf of the Inquisition, and I am on my way to Skyhold to meet with them. If you wake up around dawn, like usual, then I will be hours away by the time you see this.  _

_ I know you’re angry. I won’t tell you not to be, but you cannot follow me, and you cannot stop me from going. It’s very important to me that you not try.  _

_ You’re a father now, and a Prince. Starkhaven, and your family, need you, and even if I do as well, I can not ask you to leave them behind. I have no right, and you have more important things to do now than follow behind me on this mission. Your days of doing that are long over. You have a responsibility to Neriah, to Markus, and your city. You can not forget that, and you can not abandon it. Do not come after me, please. I’ll have Varric with me, and apparently Cullen is there as well, for what that’s worth these days. _

_ I know you want me to be safe, but I cannot feel safe in a city patrolled by Templars while Corypheus lives and controls them. I have to stop him. I may be the only one who can. I’ll be meeting with Stroud as well, if I can find him. He’s a good man, the one who’s been helping with our research into the red lyrium. _

_ Just as you want me to be safe, I want you to be safe. You, Bethany, Varric. Everyone. This is on me. _

_ I was sad to hear that I stood between you and your son. I never wanted that, and while I don’t think you did either, I will not ask you to make the choice between us. Please reach out to him now while I’m away. Family is important, it’s everything, and you have the chance to rebuild yours. Take that chance, Sebastian.  _

_ I am so proud to know you, and to have been with you all these years. You are one of the kindest and most noble men that I’ve ever met, and it was an honor to fight alongside you, and to spend this time with you here as well. Your heart amazes me. Starkhaven’s people could not ask the Maker Himself to send a better man to watch over them.  _

_ Know that I will miss you terribly, and think of you every day - just as I do now. I believe that the Maker is watching over me, and I must trust Him with my fate. If you would do anything for me, please pray for me, and remember the times that we’ve shared together. Never doubt that I was happy with you when I was in Starkhaven.  _

_ With luck, this will go quickly, but when have we ever had luck? I think, also, some time apart will do us good. You can not be expected to devote yourself to so many things at once. Your family, and your city, must come first. _

_ I’ve written to Bethany as well. Please tell Merrill and Fenris, and please don’t let them follow me. _

_ All my heart, _ _   
_ _ Apadiel _

The sound of metal on wood fills the room as he scrapes the inside of the bowl methodically, mixing the water and flour with a healthy dose of the starter and a pinch of salt, his mind wandering as he works the dough into a sticky, wet ball before turning it out onto the cool countertop. It offers no resistance under the heel of his hand as he starts kneading, his body taking over automatically as his thoughts turn to Hawke and his part in what made her decide to do this alone.

That she should go when Varric asks it of her is no real surprise, and even as Sebastian thinks of her going alone, he knows that she will not be alone in Skyhold. He was the first friend she made in Kirkwall when she arrived, helping her and her family even as he helped himself, knowing even then that she would be invaluable on an expedition to the Deep Roads, a trip that first brought her in contact with the red lyrium that they’d been researching along with Stroud, her friend in the Grey Wardens. Sebastian was not with them when they went to the Vimmark Mountains to confront the Carta, but he heard about Corypheus, about the blood and the Grey Warden prison. Of course Hawke sees this as her responsibility. If Corypheus lives, then her job is not done, and who’s to say that more of her blood isn’t what’s needed to kill him this time? 

_ Or how much of her blood. _

He shakes his head at the thought when it comes to him, folding the dough over itself and starting again. The letter mentions nothing of when she will be back, or that she will write in the meantime. Hawke does not promise to return, and the words read so much like a good-bye. 

He pauses long enough to roll his shoulders, lifting one arm to scratch at his brow with the back of his wrist. Kneading bread was not a popular form of meditation at the Chantry; sticky hands and proving time made it harder for some to concentrate, but he always found a sort of peace in the rhythm of it. Push, pull, turn. Repeat. The dough will tell him when it’s ready. It always does. About other things, however, he is less certain. 

Hawke’s insistence that he stay with his family and look after them is bittersweet and fills him with pride and love for her just as he is filled with shame for his own actions. Time spent with Neriah and Maresa, suggestions taken from Delphine without Hawke’s knowledge, and Markus’ direct statement that Hawke was what kept Sebastian from reuniting with his son: all of these came between the two of them, and Sebastian sees too clearly now how they served to push her away and drive her to leave him behind and think that that was best, that that might even be what he wanted. 

_ Think about someone you don’t like.  _ It was unexpected advice from the petite, shy Sister who first taught him to make bread in the Chantry, but it’s served him well all the years since, and it will do today as well, even if his thoughts now turn not to a person but to a situation, or several of them, that he doesn’t like. To focus on a person would be difficult, as Sebastian can think of no one he is more frustrated with than himself. 

Sebastian stares at the ball of dough in front of him as if it could give him answers to the questions in his mind, but nothing comes, and he does not know what to do. He wants to follow her wishes, to stay and to wait and to welcome her home when her mission is completed, but his gut tells him that this is all wrong. Hawke left feeling like she wasn’t important, and that same feeling might keep her from returning, when nothing could be further from the truth.

The kitchen door creaks, and Sebastian turns away from his work to see Bethany peeking in with Canut’s head poking through further down. She shakes her head in relief when she sees him, and when she steps into the room, she has a letter of her own in her hand.

“Thank the Maker. I’ve been running all over the Keep looking for you.” She looks down at the letter in her hand, then up again. “I thought maybe you went with her.”

“She told me not to,” he replies flatly, turning back to the dough on the counter.

“That doesn’t mean you wouldn’t.” Bethany moves to the side of the counter and ducks her head until he looks over at her. “Are you going to, go after her, I mean?”

Sebastian shakes his head. “If she wanted me to go with her, she would have asked me to go with her. She’s quite clear,” he adds, nodding to the paper nearby.

Bethany glances towards it and Sebastian nods permission. She pins his letter to the counter with a finger then pulls it closer, already reading as she draws it towards her. 

“She told me about Markus, about what he said,” she mutters as she reads. “I hope you can forgive me, Sebastian, but your boy seems like a right proper Templar, hating someone he’s never met just because he’s been told what she can do.”

He doesn’t mean to chuckle, but it springs up from his chest too quick for him to stop it. A wave of shame follows just as fast, burning his skin and the back of his throat. He has no right to any sort of happiness, nor does he want it.

“The way she wrote this,” Bethany mutters. “It’s like she--”

“I know.” Sebastian saw what Bethany sees in the letter; the words of a woman who does not think that she will see the reader again, who is doing what she can to put things to rights, to make sure that nothing goes unsaid in case she has no chance to say it later. 

Hawke is gone, and doesn’t expect to come back.

“Is yours the same?” He asks, and Bethany hums affirmatively, nodding as she stares down at his letter. Her eyes have stopped moving over the paper, and her hair falls down around her face where she’s rested her forearms on the edge on the counter. “All sorts of goodbyes and please don’t follow and take care of each other and that. It’s scary to read someone you love talking like that.”

It’s Sebastian’s turn to hum and nod. He’s gone back to kneading, wanting something to do with his hands, to keep him moving and try to burn off some of the energy that crackles through him, threatens to propel him to the stables and on to Skyhold if he doesn’t control himself. 

“So you do love her.”

Sebastian pauses, his hands on either side of the ball of dough, now round and smooth and ready for proving. He thinks back, replays what Bethany said. It was no consideration at all for him to agree that Hawke is someone he loves, but he’s not told anyone else.

Bethany is smiling at him, soft and knowing, when he looks up at her, warmth spreading up his neck to his cheeks. “It’s good. I’m glad,” she continues, lighting up with a blush that could likely match his own. “I really am glad,” she repeats, and Sebastian nods again, this time with more confidence. He was aware of her infatuation with him when they’d first met, and at times it was a concern for him, not wanting to give her any false impressions while still wanting to be kind and a friend to her. The matter seemed to fade with time, however, and this is the first he’s been reminded of it in years, in the way that she looks down and away, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear and fighting to look at casual as possible.

“Bethany--”

“Did you know?” She asks, still not looking at him. “Did you know that she was thinking of leaving, even before Varric wrote to her?”

He shakes his head, every available word sticking to the back of his throat as he scoops up the bread dough in his hands and drops it into the nearby bowl. The move is inexact and the bowl rocks on the counter, and it takes him two tries to steady it. He is loose, untethered, his body no longer held together properly. A part of him is missing, on the road to Skyhold after all the time and effort that he and Varric, all of them, put into hiding her from their eyes. To hear that she’d been considering leaving Starkhaven even before this is yet another blow. He’s not sure how many more he can take and stay standing, a dull ache starting behind his eyes.

“No, I--” He clears his throat, tries again. “Why? Where would she have gone?”

“Back to Kirkwall,” Bethany answers, turning to rest her side against the counter and meet Sebastian’s eyes as she tells him. No answer is offered to his question of why, but perhaps none is really needed. Sebastian can think of too many good reasons for Hawke to go elsewhere, all of them stemming from his own failures.

The reality of it persists in feeling unreal, however. Even their conversation is too calm and collected for the frantic buzz under his skin that tells him to go now, to find her and save her. His heart is screaming that this is an emergency, even as his mind tells him to listen to her request and stay and continue life as it is. Birds sing in the garden outside, the heat from the oven warms his back, Bethany’s soft hair falls down around her face again, and yet none of it seems real, not while Hawke is making her way to Skyhold without him.

“I knew she was unhappy and I didn’t know how to fix it,” he sighs, looking down at his hands flecked with flour and bits of dough.

"She wasn't unhappy,” Bethany replies. “I mean, yes, she wanted to throw Delphine from a balcony on occasion, but it wasn’t that. Not entirely. She-- She cares about you so much. You know that, don't you?"   


He closes his eyes so that she doesn't see him roll them. "I want to believe it, I do. She and I, sometimes when we talked, she opened up." He opens his eyes again, mirroring her posture where she leans against the countertop. "About Anders, about her time in Lothering, about you and her family. It really felt like we connected." And then this. An empty room, a letter left before dawn, telling him not to follow without promising to return.    


"You did," she replies, and he thinks that the smile she gives him is meant to be encouraging, even if it doesn't work. "She loves talking to you. We both do. You're a very good listener." She sighs. "But she was frustrated, and words, even the kindest of words, aren’t the way to her heart."   


This gets his attention, and he straightens, arms folded across his chest. "I don't know what you mean." He stops, thinking back on every time that Hawke had flirted with him since they'd arrived, the way she pressed their bodies together, gave herself in to their kisses without reservation. When they talked about it, she’d always said that things were fine as they were, and he believed her, but to hear Bethany say it, perhaps he does know what she means: that he wasn’t doing enough, wasn’t enough. The realization is difficult, but not a shock. "She wanted more than I can give her,” he sighs, resignation settling in his chest. Perhaps she was swayed by the way Delphine and Maresa talked, by the idea of any heir at all, or--   


“No, she didn’t.” Bethany shakes her head, and her correction comes out sharp, her tone bordering on condescending when she cuts into his thoughts. "You’re wrong, so please stop worrying about that right now. She wants you however she can have you. She doesn't--" She stops, giving up with a frustrated sigh. Even with the golden light of the morning behind her Sebastian sees her blush, and when she speaks again, her voice is softer, more like herself. "My sister likes the company of men, yes, but you're special to her, you are. And there are things that are more important to her than, well,  _ that _ ."

She's lost him again, and apparently she can see it on his face. She draws a breath but doesn’t speak, and he waits, wondering what’s coming. The moment stretches as she looks at him, brows knitted together and head tilted just so, as if she’s trying to figure out an angle of attack. 

“Bethany, you know you don’t have to.” He’s not so oblivious as to imagine that this is an easy conversation for her to have with him, guiding him closer to her sister’s heart. She is the younger sister that Sebastian never had, even if he suspects she’d bristle at the comparison. 

“Yes, I do,” she continues, firm but gentle, the softly persuasive tone she learned during her brief period as First Enchanter. “You need to know this, and she won’t tell you. I’m not sure she knows how - she’s not good at asking for what she wants. She just goes around wanting it, hurting and hoping that someone notices that can help her.”

There’s pain in her voice, and Sebastian doesn’t know if it’s for herself, or her sister. Probably both. Were they discussing something else, he would be tempted to reach out to her, but this is not the time. 

It’s not the first time it’s occurred to him that he might be hurting Hawke with his actions; it’s why he pulls away from her. He has been certain that she will only ever be disappointed with what he can give her, and to hear that that is not the case is too much to ask for. He doesn’t understand how it can work, how she could be happy with him. Nor does it matter, not with miles between them now.   


Bethany straightens away from the counters and moves around the kitchen as she talks. "When we were girls, we used to play with each other's hair. Brush it, braid it, put flowers in it.” She hangs a kettle over the dormant fire in the fireplace, bringing the flames back to life with a turn of her wrist. “I always loved her hair, it was so shiny in the sun, so fine, not like mine. She couldn't make it more than a few minutes with me playing with it before she fell asleep. Every time, leaning against my legs in the bedroom while I combed my fingers through her hair."

Sebastian scrubs his hands on his apron before pushing his fingers up into his hair. It’s a sweet story, to be sure, but it will neither bring Hawke back, nor does it help him understand. He knows that he has wronged Hawke, hurt her many times over. He recalls too well the look in her eyes when she stepped away from him, warning him about the Inquisition, about Delphine, about the Templars. All of these things, he understands, but what that has to do with braiding hair is unclear to him.   


“Bethany, I--”   


She continues unabated, plucking teacups from the cupboard behind him. "Have you watched her, when we were out in the city?” A jar of honey and a small bowl of sugarcubes follow the cups onto the counter. “I mean of course you have, I know, but, really, have you thought about how she is? She can't walk ten steps without leaning on my shoulder or taking Merrill's arm. And at the Hanged Man she'd curl up next to whoever was closest other than Fenris. She's always been that way.”   


Sebastian sighs, still not clear on what she is trying to tell him. He tries again. “Bethany, I know you want to help.” He spreads his hands, at a loss for words, unsure how to tell her how little sense her stories are making by way of explanation, if there is some explanation to be had.

“It’s different for different people.” Bethany pauses, looking back over her shoulder at him and shrugging a little. “Carver never liked being hugged, not by me or Padi or anyone, even Mother.”

Sebastian stills at mention of the name. It’s rare to hear either of them speak about their brother, and when Bethany does now, he hears the weight in her words, wistful sadness as she brings up memories.

“He wasn’t much of a talker, either, but he liked it when you spent time with him. We could do almost anything, or do nothing.” She pulls out tin after tin of tea, opening them each in turn to sniff them. Some go back into the cupboard, some earn a place on the counter. “Sometimes, when he and Padi argued, we’d go for walks after. He was always quiet, but it was like you could feel it, his frustration breaking up and floating away.” She gestures with her hands, clenched in front of her heart, then up and out, and he wonders what she sees before her, gaze fixed on some middle distance. “He’d always thank me afterwards, even if all I did was walk next to him. That was all he wanted, was time.” Her breath tumbles out of her in a soft sigh. “It could be a hard thing to get from Padi sometimes, I guess, the way that he wanted. I think it’s part of what didn’t work between them. When she mussed up his hair, she meant it like something nice, but he hated it, thought she was teasing him. And then she’d be off again. She didn’t make time to spend with him, so I tried harder, spent more time with him instead, but it wasn’t the same.”

“Sounds like you spent a lot of time as a mediator for them,” he replies, eyes following her as she moves around the far side of the kitchen island, back towards the fireplace.

“I had to figure it out,” she says, shrugging more with her eyebrows than her shoulders. “Someone had to, to keep the peace in the house. It wasn’t like I did it on purpose -- I just wanted them all to be happy. So I learned what made them happy, and what made me happy, too.”

He watches her for a moment as she checks on the kettle and pokes at the logs. “What makes you happy, Bethany?”

She glances back at him over her shoulder then shakes her head, hair falling around her face as she stands up away from the fire. “I like people who do things for me, it makes me feel loved. I had two suitors back in Lothering, sweet boys, both of them, and-- what?”

Sebastian can’t help but chuckle, and when she stops, he tries to as well, coughing into his fist. “I apologize, Lady Hawke,” he offers, drawing upon a little extra formality. “I was simply amused by the obviousness of you having two suitors at once. Clearly men with excellent taste in partners. Not unlike the King of Ferelden, if I am to understand the rumors correctly.” He arches an eyebrow, folding his arms across his chest as he regards her. He knew of the budding romance early on, letters for her being delivered to him instead on the assumption that the King’s correspondence was for the Prince. Naturally the letters stopped when she moved into the Circle, but Hawke still told him when there was some new development.

“Oh, stop it,” she sighs, but she’s grinning when she faces him. “He was sweet and we danced at your ball, and if he writes me letters and I answer them then, well, that’s that.” She clears her throat and bites at her lip until her smile starts to fade. It’s “Anyway, he’s not the point. We were talking about  _ other  _ Fereldan suitors. The one, he would come with flowers, or read me poems, always trying to hold my hand and kiss me on the cheek. I knew he meant well, and it was darling that he tried so hard.” She pulls a tin of tea closer and opens it, tipping some out into the strainer over her own cup and nodding for Sebastian to do the same. “They were just flowers, though, and they were poems he’d found, not ones he’d written, and it all felt like a book, but in a bad way. It was what we were supposed to be doing, but it wasn’t exciting.”

Sebastian does as instructed, choosing a light tea with a sharp citrus scent. “What about the other boy?” He asks, eyes flicking from the tea to her and back, not wanting to take too much. 

Her smile lights up, but fades as quickly. “He always carried the shopping home from the market if he saw me there. Even if I didn’t buy anything, he’d still take Mother’s basket and walk with us. He’d come by the house and help out - mended a fence once, fixed a door hinge that always creaked. I got to be that I stopped fixing things myself because I knew he would help me with them.” She pours water over her tea, then his, before setting the kettle off to the side. “I asked him about it once, why he did all these things. He was using his coat to keep the rain off of me, walking me home. He said he couldn’t write poems, but he could do this. He wanted to give me something, but all he had was what he could do with his hands.” 

She sighs, but it’s a sound of contentment, and while Sebastian suspects he knows how the story ends, he is still glad to hear that Bethany knew such peace for a while. 

“We spent a summer finding out all sorts of things that he could with his hands,” she continues, voice pitched low under the sound of spoons on porcelain as they each stir sweetness into the tea; Sebastian uses honey while Bethany takes sugar. “He wanted to protect Lothering, so he went off to fight when the Blight started. I never saw either of them again, but what he said stayed with me, how it made me feel, knowing that someone was doing things for me because they cared about me. Or maybe not, but it felt like they did. Like when you hold doors open for me, or help me find a book in your incredible library. Not that I mean-- oh, no,” she sighs. 

“You’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this,” he offers, trying to shift the subject to keep her from feeling too embarrassed. He is not unaware of her past affection for him, and while it’s not something he wants to foster, neither does he think that she should be ashamed of it or see it as something wrong. She is a good friend to him, and he wants to be that for her as well.

“I spent a lot of time watching people, my whole life,” she explains, wrapping her hand around the side of her mug. “I can’t be at the front; I’ve always had to hide, so I learned to observe. Carver and Padi could come and go as they pleased, and I couldn’t. A lot of it was watching them, but the same thing applies for others, too. We all have things that make us feel loved, things that mean more when others do them. It’s how we show we care, and what we look for in others.” There is the faintest glow of blue from her fingers as she cools her tea, just enough to make it the perfect temperature to drink. Sebastian settles for blowing on his, watching the steam swirl away into the air.

“What about me, then?” He asks, biting down on the amusement that slips into his voice. He doesn’t mean to tease her about this. In truth he finds it fascinating, but he also knows that she will have an answer to his question, doesn’t doubt that she’s thought about it.

She leans forward on the counter and ducks her head to look up at him. "I was getting there, I promise. I hope you understand, this is a strange conversation to be having with you.” It’s true, and he does his best to acknowledge that with a nod as she continues. “There are different ways to show people that you care about them, and when two people don't do it in the same way, sometimes they don't understand, it goes all wrong. You-- I suppose, in the Chantry, you sing.” Sebastian nods, as much to agree as to get her to continue. “You use words to show your love for Andraste, for the Maker. And you've been doing it for a long time, so it's how you know how to do it. You show your love through words. You can’t hug Andraste, can’t take the Maker’s hand, and I don’t imagine you and the other Brothers and Sisters do a lot of that either.”

His cup is warm in his hands to the point of stinging, and he recalls too well a similar feeling so many times when he touched Hawke. Her hand in his, her lips on his; even her fingers in his hair left sparks that skittered along his nerves and stayed with him the rest of the day. The thought that his touch might have affected her as deeply moves him, and in his mind moments flutter by, instants of his hand hovering near her only to be pulled away, the contact seeming too intimate, too much, or thought unwanted.    


"Padi's not like that.” Bethany continues, and Sebastian can only nod numbly, running his thumb over the pads of his fingers as he listens. “She's heard you, I promise. She knows you care about her, but she needs more, she needs reassurance. She needs to be touched." 

Bethany holds up her hand as he opens his mouth to speak, and he waits, quiet. He thinks he's starting to see, but both she and her sister know about his vows. "I'm not talking about you doing anything that would require forgiveness or break a promise you made to yourself. She wants you to touch her, and you don't, and she doesn't know how to show you that she cares about you, too. Because she does, but it's like she's speaking a language that you don't understand. To her, when she touches you, she's shouting, but you don’t reciprocate, you back off, and she thinks you don't want to hear it. This isn't about desire or lust." 

She stops in her torrent of words when her voice cracks, and he looks at her, expecting to see her blushing again, only to see a tear steal down her cheek, his letter crumpled in her hand. "It's about how she shows she cares. She's not trying to force you into anything, and you won't lose her by keeping your vows, but Padi, she needs more. She needs arms around her and kisses on her forehead. She still talks about that time you held her hand when we walked through the city, Sebastian! That made her so happy. Every time you touch her, you make her so happy, and she tries to show you, to give that back, and it's as if you don't take it."   


The ache in his head has spread, down his throat and into his chest. He replays every moment between them in his mind, and sees how many mistakes he made in light of this revelation. Bethany is angry with him; he’s hurt her sister. He is also angry with himself, for all the things he failed to see. How must Hawke have felt, to hear about affection so freely given to Delphine or Maresa in their youth? Neriah has taken to hugging him without reservation, and he doesn’t doubt that Hawke saw.    


"I don't mean to." He sighs and looks down at his hands where they're clasped around his teacup. "My family was never affectionate that way. My parents loved each other, they were happy, but they were formal with each other around us, I suppose. And when I was young, with women." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "My touches were for a singular purpose. And so were theirs, or so I thought. Now, I wonder. Hawke - Padi - I just assumed she meant the same." He looks at Bethany. "Is it too late? Do you know, before she left, did she say anything?"   


Bethany shakes her head. "It's not too late. My sister, she keeps people in her heart for a long time, longer than they deserve sometimes. And I don’t mean you,” she rushes to add. She means Anders; they both know it, and he sees it when he meets her eyes. “You're still there, I'm sure of it. She loves you, and if you let her, she'll show you. And you can show her. She'd like that.”

A lightness born of new-found confidence surges through him only to be stopped by her words, like hands on his shoulders to bring him back to himself. “She told me not to follow her,” he mutters. “I cannot, I will not go against her wishes. And there are emissaries from the Inquisition coming here any day now to meet about the alliance I proposed.”

“And you have that bread to bake,” she adds wryly, nodding towards the bowl on the counter.

He chuckles, dropping his head forward. “Do you know, I started it to give me time to think. I used to do that in the mornings in Kirkwall, too. I’m stuck with it for about three hours once I start, and some part of me thought, I guess, that I could keep busy until she comes back, by baking bread.” It sounds ridiculous, and he’s not surprised in the least when she giggles. Even if he sunk into nostalgia at the start, the baking was an impulse, an automatic thing to make the time pass faster. 

“Sometimes you’re too good for your own good, Sebastian,” she sighs. “You could make enough bread to feed the city waiting for her.”

The words are meant softly, but they hurt, pressing on a wound already made by Hawke’s departure. It must show in his face when he lifts his head, as her smile crumbles and she tilts her head, looking at him with wide, sympathetic eyes.

“Ask the emissaries about her mission. Find out all you can. Send a letter to Varric. Or I can send a letter, if you’d rather,” Bethany offers when he starts to protest. She throws her arms wide. “I know she’ll come back, but I can’t tell you when. I understand wanting to go after her, and not wanting to go. I feel the same. She’s not wrong about the city needing you, though.”

Bethany moves around the island to stand in front of him, setting a hand on his arm. He looks down at it, bewildered by the ease with which she touches him after all they’ve talked about. “I know how hard this is, but you’re not alone in this, and neither is she. We all care about her. She has Varric with her, and this Stroud person you both talk about. And the whole of the Inquisition. They need her, so they will look after her. And we will look after each other until we hear from her again.”

Sebastian accepts the hug she offers when she pops up onto her toes, even as a sort of numbness settles into him. It seems like defeat to stay in Starkhaven and wait for word when he knows that Hawke could be going to her death. She needs friends with her now more than ever. He closes his eyes to try to banish the images of Hawke and the Arishok that come unbidden to him as he thinks of her standing alone against Corypheus. His hold on Bethany tightens as he begs the Maker to look after Hawke and guard her in his absence, and tears prick behind his eyelids as he fights for a breath, his throat closing around a sob.

_ I am not alone. Even as I stumble on the path with my eyes closed, yet I see the Light is here. Maker, I know I have asked much of you, but I beg you, bring her home safe to me.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! It really means a lot to me to see what people think of this story, and while I know I don't always keep up at replies, know that I read every comment and always want to respond. Sometimes I just need to find the words. 
> 
> Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	30. To Weisshaupt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian tries to carry on as best he can while Hawke is at Skyhold helping the Inquisition. His heart and mind are divided until the arrival of a letter makes his next steps clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to the incredibly talented [star--nymph on tumblr](http://star--nymph.tumblr.com) for the beautiful artwork to accompany this chapter!

“Thank you again, Granger. Please leave these with me, I’ll look them over when I have a moment.”

Seneschal Granger nods wordlessly, his eyes moving from the papers in Sebastian’s hand to the substantial pile of documents on the desk behind him before finally looking at Sebastian himself. The movement drags over Sebastian’s skin like sandpaper, and he narrows his eyes when Granger’s gaze meets his own again. He is in no mood for the Seneschal’s judgment, and prepares himself to argue, but the words wither in his mouth when he sees the concern in Granger’s furrowed brow.

“I am here for whatever you might need, Your Highness.” Granger hesitates a moment, his normally placid countenance faltering as one corner of his mouth twitches. This is more than a delivery of another letter that Sebastian will not answer or meeting notes he will not read. “I feel I should tell you, some in the nobility are growing impatient. I’ve explained as vaguely as I can that--”

“If the nobility are unhappy with my rule then they are more than welcome to hire more assassins to put an end to it,” he snaps, pushing off from where he was leaning against the front of the desk. He turns away from Granger to toss the papers onto the top of the pile, then rests his hands on the desk, head falling forward as cold regret and shame douse the fire that flared inside him at the Seneschal’s words.

“Forgive me, Granger.” Sebastian sighs, shaking his head but not looking up, unable to bring himself to meet his eyes and see the disquiet he knows will be there. “I know you mean well, and your help has been invaluable these past weeks.”

Boots shuffle on the carpet as Granger shifts his weight. “Of course, Your Highness, I understand. Is there anything else I can do for you for now?”

“No, thank you.” He tosses the words back over his shoulder, otherwise not moving until Granger’s footsteps disappear out into the hallway. Sebastian’s eyes fall closed and he shakes his head again, shoulders slumping as the last embers in him go out, exhaustion pressing down on him. Every day it weighs a little more, making it that much harder to get out of bed and sit on the throne and go about the business of ruling Starkhaven as if nothing is wrong. 

Everything is wrong, and it has been since the day he woke up to find Hawke’s letter on the floor of his bedroom. She left for Skyhold and the Inquisition with no promise to return, taking Sebastian’s heart and much of his mind and soul with her so that he finds himself drifting through his days, a specter or ghoul of some sort, not dead but not quite alive, either. He’s tried to do as she asked, to carry on without her, but it is impossible.

The pile of papers explodes out into the room when he swings at it, the impact ringing up his arm when he backhands the collection of notes, letters, and minutes from meetings. There is no satisfaction in watching them flip and flutter to the ground around him, nor in the pain that curls his hand into a fist as he sinks down into one of the chairs that sit before his desk, burying his head in his hands so that he doesn’t have to look at the destruction around him. 

Damn the nobles. Damn them and their polite requests and their urgent reminders and their strongly worded missives, their offers of support that serve as thinly veiled attempts to put him in the same room as their daughters, their minutes of pointless meetings where they refuse to compromise or agree without him present. Do none of them understand that he needs them to shoulder the business of the city, to do the work that he cannot while his heart and mind are distracted, turned far to the south?

He’s tried attending meetings, but they go by in a haze, the notes Granger gives him afterwards the only reminder of what he was meant to have listened to, things he might have agreed to without thinking, his concentration broken time and again by thoughts of Hawke, where she could be, what she could be doing. Even his birthday came and went, a stressful affair that he would sooner put behind him. Having Varric so close and being unable to find a moment alone to speak with him, to ask him about Hawke was torture, to say nothing of having to play along while Inquisition agents stole his journal. He would gladly have turned over the notes had they but asked. Instead, it is one more thing the Inquisition has taken from him.

Those who do not demand too much of him instead demand too little. Bethany has all but moved back into the Keep and Merrill is suddenly fascinated by chess and the Chant to a degree that is almost unreasonable for a former First of her clan, spending long days with him asking questions and waiting with infinite patience while he answers, as if he is a delicate plant or a glass sculpture to be handled with kid gloves and the utmost care. Each of them have received letters from Hawke and both were kind enough to show them to him, yet none arrives at the Keep for him, and he grows more certain by the day that Hawke’s return to the Marches will mean a return to Kirkwall with no invitation sent via the Viscount to Starkhaven. Even Maresa and Neriah have been so cautious with him as to drive him mad, but at the same time he cannot fault them. He’s only had energy for two of the archery lessons Neriah begged him for, and Maresa offered to move back to the alienage when Sebastian clumsily explained what happened, and he can only hope his reassurances were enough for her to understand that this is no one’s fault but his own. 

He hasn’t moved from where he fell into the chair when Granger returns, red-faced and panting.

“Your Highness!” 

Sebastian turns slowly, one hand on the arm of the chair as he looks back over his shoulder. His body is sluggish to respond, his mind even more so as he swims up to the surface of his melancholy. Granger stumbles into the room, clearly off-balance as he holds out a small paper scroll.

“I beg your pardon, Sebastian.” He spread his hands weakly in apology, and the use of his name alone is enough to grab Sebastian’s full attention. It is a rare occurrence for Granger to forget decorum, even when no one else is present. “It fell open when I took it from the bird’s leg.”

Sebastian nods, distracted but grateful as he takes the scroll and unfurls it.

_ Choir Boy -  _

_ Get to Weisshaupt as fast as you can. She’s already on her way. _

_ \- VT _

There is no mistaking the meaning in the message, the haste of the scrawled script and Varric’s signature, enormous on the paper. Sebastian’s heart races and he trembles as he’s catapulted from his lethargic mental stand-still to a thousand thoughts in his mind at once, scattering in every direction like the papers from his desk.

Granger was never particularly warm to Hawke or even to Sebastian, not more so than is dictated by his role, but when Sebastian looks up at him now, he sees something soft and almost fatherly in the Seneschal’s expression, his brows lowered and his eyes bright.

“I will look after the city for you until you return,” he offers. The part of Sebastian that is used to the power he wields balks at Granger’s blatant overstepping, but there is no real question in his mind. Varric’s note is short, but makes one thing clear: Hawke needs him, and he is going to her as fast as a horse will carry him. Someone will need to take his place and keep watch over Starkhaven, and there is no one better suited to it than his Seneschal. 

Granger takes Sebastian’s arm in a firm grip, kindness in his eyes as he sets his other hand on his shoulder. “We all want her back here, Your Highness. May the Maker carry you to her swiftly.”

For a moment, Sebastian can only search his face numbly, his senses still catching up to this sudden challenge. Granger’s support is welcome, even if it is unexpected. In any imagined scenario, he would’ve thought Granger would ask Sebastian to stay, but he is glad to be wrong, and to learn this about his adviser. “Thank you, Granger,” he manages, returning the gesture. “Thank you.”

Granger steps aside as Sebastian strides into the hall. He is already making a mental list of everything that he will need, what will be fastest to pack, which horse can carry him the farthest and swiftest, and the red velvet box that's lain hidden too long in his wardrobe. He thinks as he walks, glancing in open doors as he hurries through the Keep. Bethany and Merrill’s attentions seemed so often to be constant hovering around him, but now that he needs them, they are nowhere to be found. After three empty rooms, he heads towards the stairs, taking them two at a time, even as his shaking legs protest and threaten to cast him headlong down to the floor below.

“Bethany!” His voice rings in the high, open space around the staircase as he calls after her. He stumbles on the thick carpet, catching himself with both hands on the railing as she appears.

“What is it?” She gasps when he stumbles, rushing up the stairs to catch him and looking at him with fear and confusion, her brows knitted and her lips pressed to a thin line. Sebastian only waves her off, holding out the scroll by way of explanation. It’s crumpled from where he grabbed at the banister, but still legible, and her eyes go wide as she reads it. The confusion disappears, but the fear remains when she looks to him again.

“Can you get me there faster?” He asks, and she nods, her entire countenance changing. It’s remarkable to behold, and something that Sebastian hasn’t seen since they left Kirkwall, the way that she lifts her chin and draws herself up, brow settling and lips pulling into a confident smile. It was not simply for her friendship that Sebastian wanted her to be First Enchanter, a point he argued to the Knight-Commander and Chantry in turn. Bethany is a powerful mage with years of Circle study to draw from, and though he cannot see it now, it is no hard thing to imagine the Fade itself collecting around her, pooling and swirling as it awaits her commands. She was frightening on the battlefield, but more than that he’s found himself amazed by the precision and control she’s demonstrated on his rare visits to the Circle when it still existed in the city. 

“I’ll find Merrill,” she replies, nodding. Her gaze is already distant as plans form in her mind. “We can make you runes of haste for the horse’s bridle, and maybe something for stealth.” She talks as she makes her way back down the stairs, and Sebastian watches her as she goes. “If you’re taking the Imperial Highway then you’ll be protected, but there are parts where you can’t, so you’ll need to be careful.”

Bethany turns back when she sees that he’s not followed her. “Oh, you need to pack. Of course.” Her gaze darts from side to side as she looks away from him for a moment; it’s the same expression Sebastian wore moments ago, his heart and mind catching up to each other, realization setting in. When she looks again, she’s grinning, tears shining in her eyes. “She’s coming home, isn’t she?”

“Maker willing,” he replies, summoning as much courage as he can into his voice. She nods to him again and sets off, and Sebastian leaves her to her work, hurrying back up the stairs to his chambers.

Preparations happen in a frenzy of activity, ending with rushed good-byes full of prayers and well wishes. Fenris promises to stay in the city only after Sebastian commands him not to follow, and Merrill hugs him for so long he thinks she might not let go, and he is reminded that Hawke is not only important to him, but to all of them. They have been his strength when he should have been theirs, rather than allowing his own melancholy to overtake him, and he looks at each of them with warmth and pride as he climbs up into the saddle, Bethany holding the horse steady. 

With runes tied to his horse’s bridle and another bag of them in his pack, he sets off, hooves clattering over the cobblestone streets as he streaks through Starkhaven, out over the bridge and up into the same hills that he first saw the city from more than a year ago when he returned. This time, his absence will not be so long, and when he returns, he will have Hawke with him.

The days of travel are monotonous and blur together, with nights spent in anonymous taverns and hours spent racing along the Imperial Highway. Sebastian spares little thought for anything but his destination, eating only in the mornings and evenings, his horse driven nearly to breaking by the time he turns away to the west of Vol Dorma. 

He prays to pass the time on the road and in the evenings, no longer the bargaining and promises of his youth, but instead desperate requests for Hawke’s safety and his own continued swiftness, as well as questions that turn into one-sided discussions far into the night as Sebastian grapples with the many outcomes that may meet him at the fortress. There is no guarantee that he will arrive while Hawke is there, and perhaps even less certain is the idea that she will want to see him. He can only try to prepare for these worse eventualities while indulging in his most fervent hopes. 

The last of the light is fading when the village of Weisshaupt appears before him, spread out around the base of Broken Tooth, the butte into and onto which the jagged fortress itself is built. It looms in the distance, sand-colored against the deep indigo of the evening sky when Sebastian arrives. By contrast, the wide main streets feel welcoming, the occasional cobblestone peeking out from under hard packed earth smoothed by ages of traffic, gritty under his feet. The whole of the village is edged and lined with sand, an inevitability in a place like the Anderfels. The buildings that rise up on either side of him are varied in size, shape and color, hinting to the patchwork nature of the community that lives here. While some who live and work around the fortress are native to the area, most are pilgrims who’ve come to live in the shadow of the fortress a loved one calls home.

Sebastian passes a row of flat-fronted plaster buildings painted in shades of salmon and pale blue and cream, some with intricate carvings in the shutters now closed over the windows for the evening, others with delicate mosaics or sparkling tile and glass set around the arched doorways. The oldest buildings tell of the city’s heritage, made with coarser stones and trimmed with wood that’s been sanded down by time to a visible smoothness. He pauses to admire one of the homes, pondering at the time it must have taken to select and set every individual tile. A shadow moves at the window of the house and he ducks his head, clicking his tongue to get his horse to follow when he moves on.

Narrow alleyways criss-cross the wider streets, poorly lit and with fabric awnings stretched between buildings so that only slivers of moonlight slip through. Sebastian glances up one way and down another as he walks, and he pauses when a pair of tiny eyes flash gold-green at him in the darkness. A small, slender orange and white cat pads out of the alley towards him, winding itself around his feet before flopping onto the sandy ground and rolling to show him its belly. Sebastian chuckles and shakes his head, watching as the cat snaps back to its feet when his horse snorts. The cat trots back to the alley with tail held high and doesn’t spare them another glance, clearly unimpressed by their manners. 

They make their way through the village otherwise undisturbed. It is late, and most people are indoors away from the lingering heat in the air. Sand scratches under his steps, and Sebastian has long since abandoned his cloak, draping it over his horse’s saddle, the final warmth of the day seeping up out of the ground. They pass white stone steps flanked by potted trees with spiky leaves and meet another cat, this one enjoying the last drops of water from a spigot sticking out of the wall of a pale yellow building that stretches tall towards the night sky. A light burns in one of the upper windows, and as Sebastian’s gaze tilts up, he stops to marvel at the citadel blocked out the stars. 

Weisshaupt Fortress rises above every rooftop, blotting out clouds and stars alike. In silhouette, dark against a dark sky, it is an indecipherable chaos of narrow arches and tall, pointed towers; one side appears to have a platform, lower and flat, that Sebastian can almost imagine griffons soaring away from, carrying Grey Wardens to save them all from the Blight. 

He is tempted to make his way to the fortress immediately, but there is no guarantee that the Wardens will welcome him, or that Hawke will if she’s already arrived. A night’s rest will do him good, and allow him time to gather his courage and resolve. Hawke did not send the letter telling him to come, and his certainty faded during his journey, though seeing Weisshaupt helps revive it. She will be there, and more than anything he wants to see her and know that she is safe. If she sends him away after that, he will accept it with as much grace as he can muster.

Sebastian leads his horse under a wide archway in the same ancient stone as the oldest buildings. It’s topped with a belltower, and within the arch the braziers on either side paint golden light onto the walls and street. Much of the village is shuttered for the evening, no wind to provide relief from the heat, and this makes the tavern that much easier to find. He hands the leads to his horse off to a stocky Elven boy who clicks his tongue and produces a sugar cube from his pocket, immediately winning the beast’s trust.

The door to the tavern is down a set of stairs, the entire space underground and blessedly cool compared to the residual heat of the street outside. The room that he steps into is dark and dim but not unwelcoming, with arched doorways and painted tiles set into the walls where stones have been chipped away, a mosaic in miniature to match the rest of the city. An older woman with bright eyes and short-cropped white hair stands behind the bar, wiping down tankards and glasses. She gives Sebastian a friendly grin and makes her way over to meet him.

“Good evening.” The clipped Anders accent makes even the warm greeting seem perfunctory and harsh. “You need a room for the night?”

Sebastian nods. “Thank you, and I left my horse with the boy outside,” he adds, hooking a thumb back over her shoulder.

It’s her turn to nod, taking the coins Sebastian offers in one hand as she notes in a ledger with the other. 

“Anything to eat while you’re here?” She asks without looking up.

Sebastian shakes his head and offers a pinched smile. The end of his rations lasted him to the outskirts of the city. A risk, given that he’d been unsure what sort of lodgings he might find, but his stomach is full. “No, thank you, not for now, but do you have just water, or some sort of juice, perhaps?”

That gets her attention. She drops the coins into a pouch on her belt and appraises him with a glance, narrowing her eyes as she looks him over. “What are you, with the Chantry?” 

Heat races up from his neck to the side of his face. “Aye.” It’s not quite a lie. He’s with the Chantry, even if he’s not there on Chantry business.

Her eyes widen at the admission, then she catches herself, nodding and appearing to actually consider his options. “Well, we have some tea left,” she muses, glancing back over her shoulder. “We brew it strong and chill it, add some mint and things. Might keep you awake for a while.”

“That’ll be quite alright, thank you,” he replies. “I don’t expect I’ll sleep much as it is.”

It looks for a moment as if she’s going to ask, but then decides against it, turning away to disappear through a swinging door. Sebastian sighs to himself, relieved that his saying too much didn’t lead to a longer conversation. Barkeeps are used to listening to people talk, he knows, but he is no longer one of those men who spends an evening warming a stool and sharing his life story, and the idea of being one again, even for a night, makes something tighten in his stomach, and he turns from the counter to look out over the room, settling onto a stool nearby.

In a corner near the dwindling fire, a group of older women sit playing cards and gossiping. One of them cackles as she sweeps coins into a pile in front of her, but all of them are smiling. They are the only patrons apart from a table of Grey Wardens that sit by the window, easily identifiable by their armor. There are ten of them, five on each side of the long table, their weapons balanced against the bench or resting at either end - mostly swords, though he sees one longbow and a staff that pulses a slow, faint purple, dim even in the low light around them. He can see wear and tear in their armor and in their faces as they eat and drink, quiet and isolated even from each other.

There were times in his youth when he’d wondered about them, these orders that exist to protect Thedas from the dark and evil of the world. His notions regarding Templars have soured as he’s grown into a man within the Chantry and seen firsthand the corruption and disorder of them in Kirkwall, the mistreatment of mages and madness of years of lyrium exposure. That his son is one of them would have been a source of pride some years ago, but now it causes only alienation and resentment, and Sebastian’s concern about Markus’ future.

The mystery of the Grey Wardens has remained with him however, untarnished and undimmed. Boyhood tales of Corin and Zazikel, and the romance of Neriah’s sacrifice are well-known within the city that saw the fall of the Archdemon, and even the most recent tellings of the deeds of the Hero of Ferelden fascinate him.

Romantic it seemed when he was a boy, to take an oath to protect others in time of need, join a sworn brotherhood that ventured into the Deep Roads and battled Archdemons. Darkspawn are arguably a more clearly-defined threat than mages, and the tales are filled with lesser sons of nobles driven to fight for a cause greater than themselves, knowing that they would never have a throne of their own. In his youth it all sounded so honorable and mysterious, giving up his name and past in order to become such a hero. In the end, the choice was made for him, a safer future less steeped in blood, and he is not ungrateful for that, yet as he watches them, he can not help but wonder how his life would have been if he’d been sent to Weisshaupt instead of Kirkwall.

The Wardens before him do little to reinforce the glorious images in his mind of griffon-marked warriors of old, however. Instead, they remind him more of off-duty city guardsmen drowning their sorrows at the Hanged Man, slouched over tankards, too tired to speak, even to each other, or to look up at the entrance of a new person into the tavern.

The barmaid comes back with tea for him, a pale and sharp-scented concoction poured into a tall, round glass flagon that sits on a tray along with a small mug, also glass but with a metal handle and base. Sebastian thanks her as he turns away from the Wardens. 

“I’d like to buy them a round, if that’s all right,” he offers, nodding back in the direction of their table. “They look like they’ve travelled hard, and should be welcomed here.”

She eyes him with suspicion that disappears when she hears the weight of his purse as it lands on the bartop. “Well, you can start by paying for what they’ve already had. ‘Send the tab to Weisshaupt’ they tell me, as if we ever see a  _ single sovereign outta that place! _ ” She raises her voice at the end, and a Warden with a thin silver ponytail and shadows under her eyes turns to look at them. “All their families trying to scrape by down here and all they can do is mutter some horseshit about treaties. I can’t buy wine to stock this place with treaties.”

“Ahh, piss off Marcie! D’you know where we’ve come from?” Sebastian doesn’t look in time to see which of them spoke, only to see them all turn away again, rolling their shoulders and sucking their teeth.

Marcie sighs at them, waving a towel in her hand as if to dismiss them before wandering off again. Sebastian slips from his stool and walks to their table, cool mug in hand. He doesn’t want to impose, but the Warden’s question has him curious, and he hopes his gesture buys him some good will with the Wardens as well as the barkeep. “Marcie might know, friend, but I don’t. Would you tell me, where have you come from?”

The Warden closest to him is an older Elven woman with dark, wild curls and a jagged scar across her hairline. She weighs him with her eyes, glancing back to the bar as if remembering that he’s settled their debt for the evening. Only then does her expression soften, and she sighs heavily. “Adamant Fortress, Western Approach. Or what’s left of it now. Bloody dragon ruined most of it. Bloody Inquisition.” 

She turns back to her ale as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to talk about a dragon. Sebastian swallows his panic with a deep drink of his tea, waiting to see if one of the others continues, but they don’t, instead settling back into silence.

“Were there many lost?” He manages. There’s no sense in asking about a single woman, no matter what the fighting must have looked like. Adamant was an old Warden fortress, it’s likely there were many there, and Hawke provided no details of what she was doing with the Inquisition. Neither did Varric, but he’d sent Sebastian to Weisshaupt, and he can only guess that where these Wardens have come from is where Hawke was as well. 

An older man, seated in the center of the table, nods without looking up, eyes hidden by red hair grown too long over his face. He gets an elbow to the ribs for his trouble, but it’s not enough to discourage him, and when he speaks, Sebastian hears why, warmed to have found another from Starkhaven so far from home. “Yes, ser, we did. That’s part of what we’re here to report on. We were to meet with someone. Ah, what was her name, the one the Inquisitor sent, fell out of the Fade, she did.”

“Hawke.” The answer comes from a Dwarf at the far end of the table. “Champion of Kirkwall, before the sky broke open.”

_ Fell out of the Fade. _ Sebastian sets a hand on the table to steady himself, sending a shield clattering to the floor. All the Wardens look up at him now in various states of startled or irritated, and Sebastian keeps his head down, not wanting them to see the way color rises on his cheeks. Better they think him intoxicated than guess the effect their casual words had on him. 

“Do you need help, ser?” The red-haired man moves to stand, but Sebastian waves him off.

He does need help, more than he can tell them, but none of them can give him what he needs. “No, thank you, just-- I think I’ll retire for the evening. Thank you all for your answering, and for your sacrifices. This Hawke, was she not with you?” He can feel the desperation in his throat as he asks, and can only hope that it goes unnoticed by the others.

“About a day’s ride behind, we think. Our orders were to return to Weisshaupt, and we left before she’d set off.” This time the older Warden is yanked back down to his seat by a hand on his shoulder, and when someone hisses for him to shut up, he obeys, offering Sebastian only a shake of his head. There will be no more news coming from any of them.

Sebastian gives them a nod, then turns away. He leaves the half-full mug on the bar before heading up the stairs to his room. His legs are heavy, boots scratching at the gritty wooden floor as he steps inside and closes the door behind him. 

This is not the first time Hawke has found herself in the Fade. Too well he recalls pacing in an alienage apartment, watching the others sleep, praying for them the entire time, even when the Keeper - Marethari - glared at him for invoking the Maker and speaking of demons. Hawke and Anders fell asleep hand in hand, but who was with her now? He does not know this Inquisitor, or any of the others there save Varric, and his impression of the Inquisition has been none too positive thus far.

Sleep is elusive, and Sebastian wakes time and again in the night, startled by dreams he does not remember, or small sounds as the building settles around him. The morning finds him sandy-eyed and weary, with a knot in his back from the bed and a weight on his chest at the thought of what the day could hold for him. He sits on the edge of the bed, folding and unfolding the letter that Hawke left when she departed for Skyhold. He knows every word by heart, his eyes tracing the shapes of the letters more than reading them, imagining her face in the candlelight as she chose her words, the way her fingers held the pen.

They were not on the best of terms when she left, knowledge that has haunted him, a wrong he is determined to right if she will let him. He misses her, but he knows that he must consider the idea that she will not want to see him. Varric summoned him to the fortress, not Hawke, and Sebastian has no way of knowing if she knows to expect him. He can only hope to be a welcome surprise and not a bitter disappointment. 

The barmaid from the night before is replaced by a much younger man with a limp and a glassy eye who takes his time collecting Sebastian’s key and wishing him well, as if he were paying by the hour for time spent in the tavern. After far too many minutes of small talk, he finds himself outside, squinting against the brilliant sunshine that promises a day no cooler than the one before. His horse noses at him affectionately, following along as Sebastian seeks out some sort of breakfast. 

The village wakes up around them, and he finds a small café run by a polite Orlesian woman and her shy daughter. There are warm cakes fresh from the oven and many types of tea, and while it is a sweeter and less substantial breakfast than he is accustomed to he finds it pleasant, almost indulgent, an unlooked for sensation given his surroundings. The café is filled with flowers in white pots, wooden tables and chairs sanded soft and smooth, and he can watch as others come and go, starting their days. 

The troupe of Wardens from the night before make their way past, and the redhead gives him a nod that he returns. He’d thought that they would have already made their way to Weisshaupt, but it’s just as likely that none of them were in any condition for the trip after an evening in the tavern. Seeing them brings back the memory of their conversation the night before, and uncertainty coils around him as he looks up at the fortress.

The owner of the café senses a newcomer, sitting with him uninvited and explaining that the village serves as a home for many of the families of the Wardens who live and work in the fortress. Of course, Wardens are spread out all over Thedas, but these most important and central are here, and so they’ve brought their families as well. There are few children, part of the sacrifice that the Wardens make, but there are parents, spouses, siblings. Too many widows and widowers, but they are welcome to stay as long as they like. She and her daughter have been in the village for six years, after her husband was falsely accused of crimes that she chooses not to name other than to be adamant that he could not have committed them.

Sebastian thanks her for the tea and information, leaving a generous tip before setting off again. The horse carries him through the streets towards the fortress at an unhurried pace. Stores and homes open around him, eager to take in what cool morning air still remains before the sun warms everything it touches. The brightly colored buildings become fewer and fewer as he continues on, and it’s not long before he can feel the incline, the village falling away to a winding path that vanishes and reappears under shifting sand. There are lampposts and small bits of fence to mark the way, and he uses them as guides as his steed steps carefully, shying at a ball of loose grass that tumbles past them or stopping altogether when the wind whips sand into both their faces. Sebastian holds a kerchief over his mouth and nose, watching as the pale citadel rises before him, the iron portcullis hanging like fangs above his head as he rides under though the unattended entrance and into the stony courtyard.

There is no one to meet him, and no one appears when he dismounts and leads his horse to the stables. She is happy enough to find fresh water and shade provided by an awning and a pair of tall trees with spiky leaves, but Sebastian is not so easily satisfied. His gaze flits among the high, narrow windows for any sign of life as he hurries to the main doors, eager to be out of the sun and to start the next part of this journey. While finding Hawke here is his ultimate goal, he cannot deny the excitement that mingles with his trepidation. He is at the home of the Grey Wardens, a fortress which houses much of their history and greatest treasures. 

The main door swings open easily despite its massive size, and he is careful to close it behind him without a sound, blinking as his eyes adjust to the relative darkness of the entryway. He is met with more silence as well as cool, dry air, and still he is alone. There are no guards at the door, and none to be seen in the hallway that stretches out before him. As he makes his way along the hall he finds only stone walls lined with tapestries detailing the glory of the Grey Wardens during the Blights, each of them different and many with scenes he cannot immediately place, and he sighs to think that he has no time to linger and study them. The fabric swallows the sound of his boots on the floor, leaving him feeling that much more like an intruder, silent yet exposed and wary as he walks, glancing in doorways to find abandoned desks and empty rooms filled with artifacts that would give him more pause if the situation were different. 

The stillness is so complete as to seem unnatural, the hair at the back of Sebastian’s neck standing on end as he continues to prowl the hallway. There are no signs of struggle, no tapestries askew or carpets rumpled. There is no blood, but also no sounds of breathing, no faint voices or indication of life. All of it is unsettling, and he says a prayer to Andraste to ask for Hawke’s safety, whether she is here or not, and asks that the Wardens be safe as well. Varric would not have sent him on a suicide mission, this much he is sure of, but the empty fortress is a mystery, and every passing minute makes his more suspicious and leaves him fearing the worst.

Movement at the far end of the hallway catches his eye and he presses himself to the wall, doing what he can to cling to the shadows. His hand moves to the dagger on his belt and he rushes forward a few steps, calling out to whoever’s there.

“Hello? Excuse me?” His voice fills the hallway and he shies away from it, unsure if he’s drawn too much attention to himself with the action. 

The red-haired man from the night before stops in his tracks, almost stumbling with momentum, then turns and looks, his arms at his sides. The weight of his gaze on Sebastian is palpable when his eyes find their mark. He glances away up the hall he came from, then raises a hand in greeting and hurries up the hall towards Sebastian. “Hello, visitor,” he calls as he approaches, breathless still from wherever he ran from. Sebastian takes a step back but keeps his hand on his dagger as the Warden closes the distance, then sets his hands on his knees and lets his head hang down, working to catch his breath even as he tries to speak.

“You’ll have to excuse our poor welcome, Your Highness. Everyone’s in the main hall. They’ve not taken our news well, I’m afraid.” He draws a deep breath to steady himself. “Need to plan what comes next, but you’re here about the Champion, right?”

He looks up at Sebastian through overgrown locks, the smile hidden in his unruly beard far too knowing for someone who’s been away from the city so long. That he knows to address Sebastian as the Prince is also surprise enough to leave him suspicious. A Starkhaven accent is difficult to lose once learned, and there is no way for him to know how long it’s been since this Warden was last in the city.

“And if I am?” Sebastian asks. He takes another step away, but the Warden waves a hand at him, straightening to stand. He runs a hand down the front of his coat and smiles reassuringly, though it does little to set Sebasian’s concerns to rest.

“It’s all right, ser. My sister, she lives in the city with my parents still, and she loves to write me letters with gossip. Most of it I don’t care about, but a proper Vael, back on the throne?” He pauses, eyes flaring with startled realization at his words, then his expression folds into something softer and somehow more understanding. “We were all sorry to hear about your family, horrible what happened.”

Sebastian nods, not wanting to seem ungrateful but more interested in current affairs than past losses. He’s almost uncomfortable to face such unmasked sympathy for something that now feels distant, a loss from another lifetime. “And you knew who I was last night?”

The man nods, glancing back over his shoulder, though Sebastian heard and saw nothing to draw his attention away. “I did, but you didn’t introduce yourself so and were hardly dressed the part,” he explains, gesturing. Today Sebastian is wearing the armor his father commissioned for him, but he’d stripped it off during the day on his way to the city, arriving in the tavern in little more than a shirt and simple pants. “So I thought there must be some reason, and then I remembered the letter from Jessa, my sister. She wrote to me about you and the woman Stroud brought with him, the Champion. Hell of an archer she is, Your Highness.”

The Warden blushes, a different sort of red than the deep copper of his hair, and while Sebastian wants to be irritated by the sidetracking, he finds he can’t fault the man for being taken with Hawke. Isn’t that why he’s here, after all?

“She should be here within a day,” the Warden informs him, rushing to continue the explanation as if to leave his observation behind them. “They’ve set aside a room for her. I’ll take you there, but then I have to go. And you have to stay in the room unless I come to collect you.” 

He sets off even before Sebastian can answer, guiding him through the labyrinthine fortress. Sebastian hustles after, lamenting to himself that there is no time to pause to admire the tapestries, the weapons of old mounted on the walls, or the trophies and heirlooms that seem to decorate every corner of the castle. They rush past his vision, blurring into a background of rough-hewn stone walls and closed doors. He loses all hope of being able to find his way back on his own by the time they come to another long hallway, this one lined with heavy doors of dark wood and iron, far more than the first hall Sebastian wandered alone. One of these, the Warden shoulders open with a grunt, gesturing for Sebastian to step in.

Again the Warden glances over his shoulder, this time taking a step towards Sebastian and lowering his tone. “The Wardens, we did this, with Corypheus and the sky.” There’s fear in his voice, and shame in his eyes under heavy furrowed brows as he searches Sebastian’s face, looking at him as if to make sure he understands. “It was us, and now the Inquisition knows it. We’re bloody lucky they took us in, but the High Constable and the Chamberlain are furious. We’ve lost all our mages, and so many others.” He sighs and shakes his head, tears trembling in his eyes that he blinks back as he looks away. “So you can stay, but they can’t know you’re here. Bad enough the Champion’s coming. The whole order’s been caught with our britches down, and they’re all desperate to try to make sure no one sees. We need to be trusted, or else we can’t get help when there’s a Blight, and then, well.” He spreads his hands and shrugs, and Sebastian can only nod. 

The Grey Warden treaties are powerful. Much of what backs them is the knowledge that only the Wardens can end a Blight, but there is also trust that the Wardens do not take more than they need, that they are doing a service for Thedas that they must be compensated for. If they had anything to do with the Breach and the death of the Divine, that knowledge could leave them powerless when next they call for help. 

The Warden steps away, pressing his lips to a thin line hidden by his mustache, and his eyes are watery as he watches Sebastian process what he’s just been told. The bow he gives Sebastian is shallow and shaky, but sincere. “I really have to go, Your Highness. They’ll miss me soon, and we can’t have that, not with all the panic.”

Sebastian nods dumbly. His head is reeling from the information he’s just been given, and he has many questions and now, no time to ask any of them, save one. “I don’t wish to keep you, but I would know your name before you go, Warden.”

The man grins, lines around his eyes and the corners of his mouth that show his age more truly than Sebastian had seen it the night before. “It’s Rory, ser. Rory Brenn. My sister, she’s Jessa.”

He holds his hand out, and Sebastian reaches to grasp his forearm. Rory mirrors the salutation, each of them clapping the other on the shoulder before letting go. It’s a bit of home that Sebastian would not have thought to look for here, and it warms him, but is little more than an ember in the chill that’s settled on him from the news that Rory’s given him.

“I’ll not tell them you’re here, and I’ll try to see about food,” Rory assures him. “They’re expecting the Champion, though, so there’ll be a meal for her, at least. Take care, Your Highness. It’s-- it’s an honor, ser,” he offers, already stepping away, not waiting for a reply before he turns back up the hall, a hop in his step before he settles in to the practiced jog of a soldier.

Sebastian watches until Rory disappears around the corner, then slips into the room, closing the door before him, sighing deeply. His mind churns at he takes in the accommodations, trying to make sense of what Rory said, trying to draw connections between the Warden prison, Hawke, and the Breach. The quarters are spacious if sparsely decorated, with the bed in one corner piled with more furs and blankets than he can imagine needing in a place such as this. Beside the bed sits a small table set with two candles in silver holders and what appears to be a copy of the Chant of Light. Above the bed, a narrow window lets in a thin, bright stream of sunlight, illuminating the faded carpet in front of the fireplace. There is also a desk with paper and quills, and an armchair beside him by the door. The walls are plain stone, no colorful tapestries or paintings depicting stories of old. 

He sets his bag on the armchair and walks slowly into the room. Perhaps this is standard for all visitors to the fortress; he has no way to know for sure. It would seem to him that if Hawke has been sent by the Inquisition, that Weisshaupt would offer her every courtesy, but the Grey Wardens do not always have the means for luxury, he supposes. It’s been years since the Blight. Only minutes ago, Sebastian would have conceded that too often their sacrifices are forgotten when they are no longer needed, but if their work and research between Blights includes the locking and unlocking of arcane prisons and the murder of the Divine, ripping open a gash into the Fade, then perhaps they have been given too much freedom and resources as it is.

The bed is soft and somewhat uneven when he sinks down onto it, but the linens smell of lavender and appear to have been put on recently. He resolves to do the same here as he did in Starkhaven their first night--sleeping in the chair to give her the bed--but his stomach sinks as he considers that he may not be welcome in the room at all. The hope of a joyful reunion fueled his haste to reach her, but he must also remind himself that she asked that he not follow her, nor did she promise to return. 

His hands are stiff and reluctant to cooperate as he fights to strike a match and light one of the candles on the table. The flame gutters and threatens to die before fully igniting on the dusty wick, leaping to life only to settle, twitching and swaying as his breath moves past it.

“Maker, hear my prayer. I thank You for blessing my path to Weisshaupt, and humbly ask now that You turn Your gaze to Hawke, to protect her and speed her on her journey. She is ever Your servant, and has suffered too much for far too long. Take notice and shine upon her, for she has done Your work on this day, and every day.” He swallows heavily, eyes watering as the flame dances in front of his eyes. “I will not ask You to soften her heart if it is hardened to me, but I would ask that You guide me so that I can help her in any way I can. She is a kind soul who wants only to protect those people and places that she cares about most.” He furrows his brow and closes his eyes, rubbing at a tear that clings to his lashes. “I know her methods have not always been peaceful, but she seeks peace, and I would ask that for her. Help me give her peace at least, that she may rest and finally lay down the mantle of Champion. I am sworn to Your Bride, Andraste, yet I hold Hawke in my heart as no other woman that I have ever known. I love her, and while I long to be with her always, I will let the choice be hers, but please, let me see her again so that she may choose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	31. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sebastian imagined visiting the legendary Grey Warden fortress, it was always under very different circumstances than this. The Wardens are in turmoil and he finds himself all but alone in Weisshaupt... though not for long.

Sebastian awakens with a start, nearly falling off the edge of the bed where he was dozing. He runs a hand over his face and back through his hair, blinking until his bleary eyes focus on Warden Rory standing in the doorway, red hair wild around his face. He has no idea how much time has passed since Rory left him in Hawke’s chambers, since he finally arrived at Weisshaupt fortress to find her.

“Begging your pardon, Your Highness.” The door is thrown wide, and Rory has one hand splayed flat on the wood, catching it where it’s swung back after hitting the wall when he opened it. “The hinge on this one is a bit sticky sometimes, I thought it was--”

“It’s all right,” Sebastian replies, waving off any further attempts to apologize. He draws a deep breath that threatens to become a yawn, swallowing and licking at his lips. “I didn’t mean to drift off. It’s been a long journey, I suppose.” An uncomfortable wave of heat washes over him, a combination of the lingering effects of waking up as well as embarrassment at the circumstances. He’s frustrated that he let himself relax so completely, but also relieved to see that Hawke is not the one barging in through the door. For all that he can choose, this is not how he would want her to see him for the first time here in Weisshaupt, sitting on her bed asleep beside a burned down candle like some sort of desperate squatter.

Rory nods, shooting the door an extra look as his hand slides down the wood and falls to his side. “Aye. Umm, about that. One of my brother Wardens noticed your steed out in our stables and alerted the First Warden to a possible intruder. Sorry.” He sighs, brows falling as he gives Sebastian an apologetic look. “They would’ve started searching the fortress, so I told them you were here. I had to, Your Highness.”

It takes a moment for Sebastian to answer, order returning to his sleep-addled mind as Rory explains. He hadn’t announced his presence, unable to find a Warden until Rory ran up to him earlier. He is--or was--essentially hidden in Hawke’s chambers within Weisshaupt, the Wardens in crisis after something that happened with Corypheus and the Breach.

He shakes his head and stands, scrubbing his hands on the thighs of his pants. “What did they say? Am I to be put in a cell?” He is not too proud to acquiesce to the demands of his hosts, but he can’t stop himself from glancing to his bow where it rests, leaning against the wall near the door. Ideally, it will not come to any sort of violence, and for the moment he still trusts Rory as an ally.

Rory shakes his head. “No, ser. Given your purpose here, to  _ collect  _ the Champion, and given your station and that you’re alone, they agreed to allow you to stay here as you are.” He dwells on the word, tilting his head from side to side as if to acknowledge that it’s not quite right.

It’s not how Sebastian would have described it, and he frowns at the implication that that’s what he’ll do. His best hope is for a loving reunion and for Hawke to come home with him, but he cannot guarantee it, certainly not to the entire order of Grey Wardens. Even if Rory acknowledges that there may be some misunderstanding among the senior Wardens, Sebastian can see little point in trying to correct them now. What’s done is done, and the situation will resolve itself soon enough, whatever the outcome.

“Am I to stay confined to the room, then, until she arrives?” He nods to the tray that Rory’s holding. It nearly topples when Rory looks down at it, as if only just recalling that he’s holding it. He moves into the room properly, setting it on a small table as he talks.

“You’re welcome to if you’d like, but the First Warden said it would be acceptable for you to move around the fortress as well,” Rory explains, nodding back towards the door.” You’re only one man, and, well, I think he’s hoping you’ll take a liking to us before the Champion gets here to tell you about the dragon and all.”

Sebastian chuckles, even as the sentiment tugs at his heart. His fondness for the Wardens and their history is common knowledge among those who know him well, and this is one more reminder that while he may be with a fellow countryman, he is still alone and far from home. As easy as it would be, he must be careful not to trust them too completely and let down his guard. 

The scent of warm bread and meat rises to meet him, but Rory’s words pull him away from the thought of food. “Dragon?”

The word conjures images of Kirkwall and the Bone Pit on the Wounded Coast. He’s still not sure how Hawke wound up with a share of the business; she’d explained a little as they made their way there. Nothing could have prepared him for the sheer size of the beast, like something from a legend, with leathery wings that blotted out the overcast sun and a piercing cry that brought her children swarming around them. Hawke fought as if far more than a mine was at stake, and at the end of it she stood grinning among the carnage, blood between her teeth and broken glass gritting against the stone when she turned away from the fallen monster to haul Anders to his feet. On the walk back, they all agreed that they hoped to never see such a thing again.

“It was quite the beast,” Rory replies. Sebastian glances over at him to find Rory stepping closer, watching him carefully, and he looks away quickly, embarrassed anew by the concern he saw and how much fear he must have shown with his question.

“We had a Venatori helping us, or, well. We thought he was helping us.” There’s real shame in his voice, and he shrugs when Sebastian looks at him. “And he had a dragon. Always made me nervous, but I thought ‘Better to have it on our side’. Turns out I was right until the bastard turned on us.”

It’s tempting to press Rory for more information, ask as many questions as he’ll answer to try to prepare himself for when he sees Hawke again, but already Rory is moving away towards the door, and Sebastian reminds himself that he is here as a now rather precarious guest. The answers to his questions will not bring Hawke here faster, and will not tell him any of the specifics of her experience. Only she can do it, if she’s willing.

Rory hovers in the doorway, leaning back to look one way, then the other in the hall. “Will you be all right on your own, Your Highness? If you head off to the left and then follow the hall, there’s a library and a trophy room you might like. Armor and weapons and that sort of thing.”

Sebastian nods, doing his best to keep from showing just how interested he is. Confinement to Hawke’s room was acceptable and he wasn’t about to fight it; she is why he’s come all this way, but he may never see Weisshaupt again, and a selfish part of him mourned the idea that he would leave without getting to experience any of the Grey Wardens’ history or treasures. This is a rare opportunity that he will not pass up, and he gives a grateful wave to Rory as he turns and heads off up the hallway.

The food is satisfactory, the quantity of it the most remarkable thing about it, and Sebastian eats quickly, making a sandwich of the end of the bread and meat and wrapping it in a napkin to bring with him. He glances around the room once before closing the door. His bag is stuffed under the bed, and his bow is resting on the fire side of the fireplace, as hidden as he could make it.

He walks slowly along the hallway, wary of meeting anyone despite the permission Rory brought along with the food. With no paper to prove it, he feels exposed, torn between hugging the stone walls to be unseen and staying to the carpet in the center to muffle his footsteps. He pauses only once, stopping to examine a tapestry illustrating the fall of the fourth Archdemon Andoral. He lingers on each of the delicately stitched faces, wondering which of them is meant to be his ancestor.

The door to the library is marked with a wooden crest on the door, carved and painted with a rolled piece of parchment and a quill atop a stack of books. He expects something modest and is not at all prepared for the sight that greets him.

Dark wood shelves line the walls and point towards the center of the round room in a pattern like spokes, though the center is a wide, open space, the feeling enhanced by the domed roof that soars above him, this decorated with a faded mural depicting griffons and valiant men and women on their backs. Staffs with glowing orbs are raised in preparation for a strike on some unseen foe, and Sebastian follows the line their magic would create, falling away from the ceiling to the shelves of books along the room’s upper floor, little more than a balcony to allow for perusal, but with no room to sit and read.

Glass cases with golden edges stand between the bookcases, at the end of each, and in the center of the room among the tables. Sebastian is drawn to them, caution abandoned as he sees a carefully reconstructed set of armor. The blue is faded, but the intricate quilting along it is still visible, and the careful etching of the metal shows griffons with wings raised, blades clutched in their claws. Leather gloves and boots sit at the bottom of the case, somewhat obscured by the stand holding a single page of parchment.

'The armor of the Warden Brosca, veteran of the Fifth Blight. Perished in the defeat of the Archdemon Urthemiel.'

Sebastian reads and takes a moment of quiet contemplation, asking the Maker to watch over all these noble souls who give their lives to protect Thedas from this utmost darkness.

He continues, stopping and reading at each case. There are swords, staffs, shields, all with some illustrious history to them. Some pieces are damaged or incomplete: a single greave, a badly singed cloak that was once long and luxurious in its make. Between the cases, he peruses the books as well. Many of them are historical, some written by individual Wardens about their lives and adventures, both between and during Blights. He opens some to random pages and lets himself get lost in the thoughts and musings of the men and women that gave themselves to this cause. Some are dry and monotonous journals with details of slowly passing lives, but others are deeply personal accounts that Sebastian returns to the shelves after only a moment, finding the window into their minds too intimate for a stranger to read.

Not all are diaries, not are all so easily identified. Some are in languages he cannot understand, alphabets that he’s never seen, forgotten to time or from lands so distant that he has never come across them. These he studies as best he can, taking in carefully drawn maps, illustrations of plants and beasts; there is one with small doodles in the margins, as if the writing was a chore and what the author really wanted was to spend the day with weapons, as many of the images were swords and polearms.

The shelves are as organized as they can be for a library containing so many personal accounts, and after some time Sebastian comes upon more specialized tomes. There are thick, dusty volumes with what appear to be conclusive histories of the Grey Warden order. Too heavy to be held and looked through, he finds an empty stand to set one on, careful to pinch only the very corners of the pages when he turns. The language is archaic but understandable, and he allows himself to fall into the stories being told, swept up by the passing of time beneath his fingers as he reads.

It is only with difficulty that he tears himself away from a detailed description of Nordbotten. It is similar to the books he’s read before, but standing in the library at Weisshaupt somehow adds to it in a way Sebastian cannot put into words. He rubs a hand over his face and leaves the book open on the stand, hoping to be able to return to it later.

The next shelf is more sparsely filled. A thin book with a cover in deep violet leather catches his eye, but when he opens it he sees why these books are fewer in number. Much of the language is unfamiliar to him, but he learned enough to know that these are books of magic, filled with spells and information, lists of ingredients and steps to completing rituals. Many of these are illustrated, diagrams showing how to move one’s hands or staff, and some he thinks he recognizes from fighting by Merrill’s and Bethany’s sides. It doesn’t take long, however, before he finds that he doesn’t understand what he’s reading, and much of it is more than he wants to know about the power drawn from the Fade. He sets the book back on the shelf and turns away.

On the far side of the room, tucked into a shadow cut out by the day’s last rays of sun, another case catches his eye. He moves around the tables, noting the open books and unstoppered ink bottles that indicate the other occupants left in a hurry. The armor in the case is unusual in its size and softness, a slender set of mage robes that still hold their deep blue and silver sheen. A heavy sash is wrapped around the narrow waist and the bottom of the robe hangs free over short, pointed boots. A deceptively plain iron staff leans against the glass in the back corner of the case, a coarsely cut crystal clutched in griffon claws at the top. The crystal is dark, but Sebastian knows without reading the parchment that there was a time when it glowed a brilliant golden-white, wielded by Neriah, the mage that fought alongside Corin in Starkhaven, giving him the time he needed to bring down the Archdemon to end the Second Blight.

His eyes wander over the delicately marked velvet of the robe. There is no indication of Neriah’s fabled wound, the bolt that she took to save Corin’s life and allow him to slaughter Zazikel. A moment’s perusal of the parchment tells him that it’s a replica, the original robes lost in a fire in Antiva some years before.

“You stepped in front of a Darkspawn Emissary to save the one you loved,” he whispers, fingertips settling on the glass. Different though the circumstances may be, he can’t help but feel a sense of solidarity with her. His mind conjures images of him acting the hero, placing himself between Hawke and a dragon, surrounded by fire and enemies. Fear tightens the back of his throat as the fantasy plays out in his mind, Hawke charging past him towards the monster, bow at the ready. He draws a breath, hand flying to his shoulder as he imagines the blow that he would take to save her life.

“Ser? Your Highness?” The voice jolts him out of the daydream and he turns so fast that the room moves with him for a moment, his equilibrium stolen by the imagined scenario. The Warden hovering in the doorway is not Rory, but a Dwarf, a woman with tousled black pigtails and thick bangs over sharp, dark eyes and a round nose.

He nods, drawing a breath to steady himself, embarrassment creeping up the back of his neck at being caught off-guard again.

“Rory asked me to let you know that the Champion is back.” She wrings her hands in front of her, eyes darting away every time he catches her gaze. “She came right inside and no one saw her, or else we’d’ve found you sooner, but--”

“It’s fine,” Sebastian replies with a gentle wave of his hand, as if that is all it would take to dismiss her nerves. “Hawke--The Champion doesn’t know I’m here waiting for her. I appreciate you coming to find me.”

She swallows and nods, then nods again, turning it into something like a bow as she backs out of the room. It takes Sebastian a moment to start walking, the length of the library stretching out impossibly before him. The conflict within him that he’d set aside flares anew as he wills his feet to move with heavy steps. He cannot know what Hawke will think, what she could want from him or if she will want anything at all. At the same time, every part of him is flooded with relief to know that she is alive and close and well enough to make it to the fortress on her own. 

The dwarven Warden waits by the library door, pushing it shut with a hollow thud as soon as he’s outside. She gives him one more nod, this one brisk and more confident, before turning and hurrying up the hall in the opposite direction of Hawke’s room. Sebastian watches her go, then sets off on his own, fighting his muscles for control. Part of him wants to run while part of him wants to stop and stand and leave her in peace without him. 

The door is open when he turns the corner, and again he moves with caution up the hallway, though no longer because of some unseen threat. He tells himself that he doesn’t want to startle her, but there is a warm, selfish part of him that hopes to see her before she sees him, to allow him a moment before he must deal with the consequences of coming to find her despite her request that he stay in Starkhaven. 

She is standing with her back to the door. Her weapons and bags are piled unceremoniously just over the threshold, and bits of armor hang over the back of the chair nearby. There are dents in the metal and deep slashes in the leather, as well as black puckering and flaking where the leather has been burned. Sebastian’s stomach turns to see it, a wave of cold flowing over him as his eyes move from the armor to where she stands in the middle of the room, bathed in golden firelight. Her hair is dull and matted, an uneven braid twisted and tied into a bun at the back of her head, every effort made to keep it out of her way. From here he can see a line of scratches on her neck, and one wrist is wrapped in cloth, angry purple bruising visible above the bandage. 

He draws a quiet breath at the sight of her, dusty and bloodied, her boots caked with mud. She’s beautiful, just as he remembers her, full of purpose but also desperately in need of a rest. She steps to the fireplace and rests one hand on the mantle as she works her feet out of her boots. She’s favoring her right leg, and another pang goes through Sebastian as he watches in silence. 

_ As the flames of Andraste's pyre grew ever closer to heaven, and the heat drove even the bravest of his legion back, and his heart wavered. For though Andraste did not cry out yet did he see her suffering. _

Hawke pauses by the fireplace, and at first Sebastian thinks that she’s staring into the fire, but then she moves, taking her hand from the mantle and reaching down. Too late he sees what caught her eye, and takes a step back into the hallway, watching as she picks up his bow where he’d rested it against the stone.

There’s dirt under her nails where she runs her fingers over the polished wood, taking in each familiar curve. This is his grandfather’s bow, the one she’d found and returned to him when she hunted down the mercenaries that slaughtered his family. Sebastian curses his foolishness, any hope of surprising her now lost as she turns the weapon in her hands. His eyes move to his bag, but it's still undisturbed, and he breathes out. Some surprises are still secret, though he will have to get through this first meeting with her before he can consider showing her the gift he's brought, and offering the promise that goes with it. 

“Hawke.” His voice trembles, and he swallows as he moves to the threshold and tries again. “Apadiel.”

She goes still, the bow resting in both her hands as her shoulders draw in and her back straightens. The air in the room around them vibrates at a different frequency, the tension in her body rolling out to fill the space around her. 

“I suppose it’s good you stopped me before I undressed. Wouldn’t want that.” There’s a cool edge to her voice that goes beyond her regular sarcasm, and he recalls too well all the signs he’d missed before she left, all the small changes as she pulled away. She doesn’t turn to look at him more than to angle her head so that she can just see her profile. “Did you bring the whole family?” She continues, and now he knows it’s deliberate, her not turning to look at him.

Sebastian pushes the door behind him and it closes with a soft click. “Hawke, I--”

“No,” she replies, cutting him off, the word sharp even as she feigns curiosity. “This could be interesting for them, and I know how fascinated you are with the Grey--”

“I’m here for  _ you _ .” He’s not afraid of the pain in his own voice, needs her to hear it. He has thought of his daughter, of Maresa and Markus, but in this moment they are motes of dust, insignificant compared to the warm vastness of his love for her. He steps into the room fully, arms hanging weak at his sides, all the energy in him going to keep him from running to her. He wants to let her decide, no matter how much it pains him to leave this space between them. 

Her head falls forward, shoulders slump, but he knows she’s listening, and for now that is enough.

“You left,” Sebastian says, hating the way it feels to say  it out loud. He moves closer to her, trying to will himself to be content to have her in the same room. She will turn to face him when she’s ready. He can not rush her. “Why did you leave?”

“There was no room for me.” Her head moves as she talks, and he wonders what scenes she sees play out before her eyes. “Between Andraste, your children and their mothers, and all of Starkhaven needing you, I didn’t know where you wanted me. Wherever I tried to belong, it just felt wrong, there was already someone there.”

Sebastian sighs. He’d had his suspicions, before she left, but when he asked, she’d denied time and again that something was wrong. Her answer confirms his worst fears, that she was driven not only by duty, but by pain and heartbreak as well. It was not only her friendship to Varric and experience with Corypheus that weighed upon her decision, but Sebastian’s actions as well. 

He reaches out, sliding his hands around her biceps, and steps to stand against her, not moving her, asking nothing of her but that she remain where she is. He is trembling and surprised to find that she is as well. This is weakness on his part, and he chides himself, certain that her trembling is his fault, but he is drawn to her and is reassured that she allows him this contact.

She tenses, but doesn’t move away. It hurts to think that she doesn’t want to lean on him, but he scolds himself for the thought. He has not been someone that she could lean on, and that is no one’s fault but his own.

“I want you  _ here _ ,” he whispers. He closes the last small distance between them, setting but not pressing his chest to her back. She relaxes in his hold but does not give in. “I want you with me always, Apadiel.”

“But you--”

“I do not love any of them the way that I love you.” He leans down, his nose in the hair at the crown of her head and his own breath warm against his skin where it’s reflected back when he whispers to her. “I cannot change my past, and I will not turn away from the Maker, but none of them are what you are to me. You belong, I swear to you you do. I know you do because there’s been a hole ever since you left that nothing else can fill.”

Her hand is cool when she rests it on top of his own on her arm, his bow hanging loosely at her side. “I feel like I don’t know how to be what you want.” The thinness in her voice cuts him, and he sighs against her hair.

“Being what I want is one of the things you’re best at, because what I want is you,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes closed. “Beside me, every day. Share your life with me, and let me share mine with you.”

She turns in his arms to face him, rests her  hand on his chest. Her eyes shine with unfallen tears, and it hurts him to see them. How can he possibly expect her to want to be with him when all he does is cause her pain? His heart sinks with the thought, and he waits when she takes a breath to speak.

“You have the biggest heart that I’ve ever seen, Sebastian.” Her hand settles over his heart and it strains towards her in his chest. He would let her have it if he had the power to do so. “I’m selfish,” she continues, lowering her eyes and shaking her head. “Even if there is unlimited space in your heart, the same can not be said of your life, of your days. You give of yourself completely, and it’s beautiful and I’m honored to help you, but then, you come to me. And I would give you anything you asked of me, but you can not say the same about yourself. There are parts of you, of your life that I will never have, but within the walls of your home there are women who have known you as I never will.”

“Apadiel, you--”

“I would not ask you to forsake your vows for me.” She lifts her head to look at him and her gaze is stony and resolute. There is no anger there, only conviction. “I care for you too much to ask such a thing. I know how much it means to you, but I can’t keep feeling incomplete, in the way, separate from so much of who you are.”

He brings a hand up to her cheek, wiping away tears with his thumb. It’s a far too common motion for him. He hates that he makes her cry so easily. “I don’t ever want you to doubt my commitment to you. I know I’ve given you reason to, and I apologize. You were and are my constant among the chaos that my life in Starkhaven was. I couldn’t have done any of it without you with me. I don’t even want to try.” His eyes move over her face as he talks, at times unable to meet her gaze but not wanting to look away from her. “Delphine is gone. It was a mistake from the start, and I should have listened to you. She was a fool to think that she could take me from you--” Hawke starts to turn away and Sebastian stops. He doesn’t want to hold her fast, but instead sets his fingers on the edge of her jaw, relieved when she lets him turn her face to look at him again. 

“She was a fool,” he repeats, more gently this time. “But so was I. I was confident in my love for you, but I see now how it must have appeared to you, her behavior and scheming. You couldn’t know my thoughts, that there is room in my heart for no one but you.”

Hawke furrows her brows. “But Markus--”

Sebastian shakes his head and fights to keep his expression open as he looks at her, even as frustration flares within him when he recalls the confrontation between them. “Markus may be my blood in part, but he has no right to demand that I choose between him and you. In such a circumstance, it must be the one who forces the decision who loses. I would rather have you and no heir than an heir who thinks he has the right to ask that of me.”

When she looks at him again, her brow is lined in confusion, and she shakes her head gently. “He’s your family,” she breathes.

This is a point that Hawke often returned to, and for so long Sebastian failed to understand the importance of it. For years he’d seen family only as a necessity, people he was forced to have in his life whether he wanted them or not. It wasn’t until his was taken from him that he began to understand how important they still were to him. Then Hawke and the others showed him a family of a different sort in Kirkwall, one built from loves and friendships, bonds strengthened by something greater than blood. “You are more family to me than a son I’ve never known. You were with me in my greatest tragedy, helped me find my way in life and walked with me to retake my home.” He tries a smile and his heart soars to see it returned, if only briefly as she listens to him. “These people that I’ve found, I may come to know them in time, Maker willing, but this search to find them showed me that I already had all the family I needed, as long as I had you by my side. Come back to Starkhaven with me… Princess.”

She pulls back to look up at him, hope and uncertainty in her eyes. He knows the words he wants to say to her, but they stick in his throat. He swallows, and swallows again, trying to summon courage around the fear he feels that she will tell him no.

“There has never been anyone other than you that I wanted at my side. You are more important to me than a line of succession. You mean the world to me, and I will show the world what you mean to me.” He leans in close, setting his forehead against hers, whispering. “Please, come home with me. I don’t want to do this without you.”

Bethany’s words whisper at the back of his mind, and he pulls her in close, cradling her head, his other hand at the small of her back as he buries his nose in the crook of her neck. For a moment, she is still against him and he is afraid that he’s too late, but then she moves, wrapping her arms around him, hands trembling where she balls them into fists, pulling at his shirt on his back. 

“I love you,” he whispers, and her hold on him tightens. He responds in kind, combing his fingers along her tangled hair, breathing her in where his face is pressed to her skin.

Her breath catches in a soft sob, and he squeezes her gently, then loosens his hold, still keeping her close. “There was a moment when I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” she whispers. “I was so sorry for leaving how I did, for not telling you. I thought it was for the best, that you’d be fine without me, but you were all I could think of.”

Sebastian has no idea what she’s been through with the Inquisition, and while he wants to know - wants to find out what they have to atone for - he will not ask her to tell him now. It’s unimportant, already in the past, and he wants to keep her in the present, here, with him, in his arms. There will be time for telling stories later. 

“Please stay,” she murmurs, pulling at his shirt again, her face pressed against his neck. “Please, I-- I don’t want to fall asleep alone. I don’t want-- It’s not--”

“It’s all right.” He turns just enough to kiss her jaw. “You don’t have to explain. And I’d like that. To stay with you.”

She pulls back to look at him. Her eyes are red; tears have left streaks on her skin through the dirt of the road, but she smiles at him, and he thinks that this is a new start for them, this moment. 

“Here, sit.” Sebastian takes her hand and guides her to the bed. She sits without a word, blinking slowly as she watches him move around the room. He turns his back so that she doesn’t see the flush on his face when he takes off those layers of clothing that he won’t need to sleep, stripping down until he’s only wearing his undershirt and the thin, worn pants he’s put on that morning. It could be a lifetime ago, since he spoke with the woman at the café and made his way to the fortress.

There is a basin in the far corner of the room, and Sebastian takes the cool water and pours it into a copper kettle to hang over the fire. He moves to the bed, dropping to one knee beside it as he leans down to pull his pack out from where he’d hidden it. Hawke reaches out, combing his hair back from his forehead with gentle touches, and he leans into it, tears pricking his eyes at the realization that they are together again, that he has her this close to him and she wants to be here with him. He catches her hand and kisses her palm before returning to his task, digging through his bag.

The bar of elfroot soap is wrapped in waxy paper at the bottom of the bag, and it takes him two tries to retrieve it. Hawke rubs at her eyes, and her breaths come in deep, tired sighs as he shaves some of the soap into the basin and refills it with warm water, swirling a soft cloth in it before carefully carrying it to the table by the side of the bed.

Her eyes widen as he comes to sit beside her, gather one of her hands in his own and turning to take the cloth from the basin. “Sebastian, you don’t have to--”

“It would be my honor, Hawke,” he replies, eyes flicking up to meet hers through his lashes. 

Her hand tenses in his grip but relaxes after a moment of gentle motion with the cloth. Most of the dirt is dust from travelling and is removed easily enough. He takes time with the lines of her knuckles, letting the elfroot start to work to heal the raw skin there. He takes fresh water to work on her palms, drawing the cloth in slow, deliberate motions until there is nothing but soft pink skin.

“I remember when you did this for me before,” she mumbles. Sebastian looks up at her to see her sitting with eyes closed and head fallen forward. The corner of her mouth quirks up into a smile as if she knows he’s stopped to look. 

“This time I know you’re awake,” he replies, letting his own smile slip into his voice. He recalls the night well: his first confession of his feelings for her, his need to pay penance for the pain he caused her with his demands. This is not so different, as they sit together by the fire and he washes away dirt and no small measure of old blood, watching as she softens with each touch of his fingers to her skin. His fingertips spark with the contact. Perhaps it is indulgent that he should enjoy being so close to her, and yet he is sure that every touch is wanted and welcome, and perhaps there is nothing wrong with finding joy in giving and receiving the pleasure of touching someone he loves. Perhaps this is how it is meant to feel.

He continues, taking her other hand in his own. The bandage around her wrist looks clean, but she winces when he ghosts his fingers over it, and so he resolves to leave it for the next day. He washes her hand and arm as far up as he can beneath the loose sleeves of her tunic.

Sebastian stands to change the water and collect a new cloth, and turns to find her stretched out on the bed. She’s on her side with her back to the wall, and her eyes flutter open when he settles on the edge of the mattress and reaches out to brush her hair off her forehead.

“Just a little more,” he whispers. “You can sleep if you’d like. I promise to stay.”

Hawke smiles, lopsided and lazy, and reaches out after one of his hands. Her eyes are closed again, and her fingers fumble over the blanket until he takes her hand in his. He holds her hand, doing what he can to wring the cloth out one-handed and fold it over once. He catches one corner with his finger and works as softly as he can to clean her face, starting with her cheeks, rubbing in soft, repeated strokes until the lines of her tears are gone, until the lines on her forehead are no longer caked with dust, until the split on her lower lip is rinsed of dirt and blood. Her eyelids twitch, but her hand is slack in his and her breathing is quiet and even in the still of the room.

He drops the cloth into the basin and abandons his work to lay down beside her, drinking in as much of her as he can in the low, golden light. Bruises will fade and cuts will heal, and none of them make her less beautiful, less strong or vibrant in his eyes. He yawns, fighting against the tidal pull of sleep, desperate for as much time as he can have with her now that they are together again. There will be more days, he knows, but never another night such as this one, and to fall asleep would be a waste of each precious moment.

He reaches out, brushing his fingers along her hairline and down past her ear to her jaw. “You have seen me when no other would recognize my face. You compose the cadence of my heart.” He does little more than breathe the words, not wanting to wake her, but Hawke stirs, blinking once as she shifts over the bed to rest against him, her head under his chin and her arm thrown over his side. He tenses for a moment when she slips her hand under the hem of his shirt to seek out his skin, then relaxes. It will take time for both of them to learn how to be together, but they must start somewhere, and that can be tonight. Hawke hums contentedly when he reaches down and draws the blankets up over both of them.

Sebastian wills his body to be still and not react to her as they settle together under the blankets. Every little movement she makes sends sparks through him, and he breathes, slow and deliberate, trying to center himself in the same way he does when he trains. He wants this, time and contact and intimacy with her.

“Sebastian.” 

He hums low in his throat to let her know that he’s still awake. His body is exhausted, but his mind is still reeling from the events of the day, of the evening, not allowing him to sleep quite yet.

“I just realized I didn’t say anything earlier.” She shifts a little, looking up at him in the light of the dying fire and pulling her arm around to come between them. “I love you, too. I love you. I’m so sorry I left you how I did, I’m so sorry.” Her words turn to exhausted, indecipherable mumbles as she nuzzles in against his neck, and Sebastian rubs slow circles on her back, hushing her softly and shaking his head, his chin rubbing against her hair.

“Come here, love.” He wants to tell her that there is no need to apologize, that he understands her desperation, and that from today, he will work to make sure that she never feels that way again. He wants to sing praise to her, to whisper his love for her into every inch of her skin, but there are ways to do this without words, and he wants to find those as well. 

She settles down against him without complaint. He combs her hair back from her face, softly from her hairline to the  nape of her neck as best he can , and he holds her there when he bends to kiss her forehead. He brushes his fingers along her jaw, tracing her lower lip with his thumb before continuing on, holding her gaze as he maps her throat and collarbone with his touch. She shivers, but stays still, watching him with the same sleepy warmth he knows is in his own eyes.

He lingers at her shoulder, gently massaging the muscle there until she relaxes, then moves on, down her arm to her hand. He lifts it from where it’s been resting on his chest, his thumb pressed to her palm as he brings her hand up so that he can kiss each fingertip in turn, little more than a breath against her skin, but with each kiss, her smile grows, breaking into a grin when he kisses her palm, setting her  hand on his cheek.

Her eyes flick up, down, and back to his, as if making a decision, and he is warmed and moved by the delight in her eyes when she runs her fingers through his hair, tracing the shell of his ear and the line of his jaw. Her gaze follows her touch, and he is momentarily still as he watches her embrace this new-found freedom between them. She lingers at a small scar on his chin as if seeing it for the first time, pushing herself up to kiss it, giving him a shy smile afterwards. 

They lose all track of time as they continue in this way, learning each other. Neither speaks save for small, unbidden sounds that come when some favorite spot is discovered, or some injury. There is a bruise on her ribs that makes him want to burn Skyhold to the ground, but she takes his hand from it and leads his thoughts back to her, kissing his knuckles and setting his  hand on her knee under the covers. 

Neither of them is immune to desire. He feels the way her hips shift, the hitch in her breath when he presses his hand to the small of her back. He is aroused as well, but it is not the desperate, all-consuming need that he feared and remembered. It is an ember, a pleasant ache, a single breath that turns ragged when her hand slips under his shirt, skin on skin on his stomach. She makes no move to coax him, and he does not lose control; he finds that he does not want to lose control. To move beyond this would be a waste, to leave the blissful space that they are floating in together. 

He shifts, his knee between hers, and she runs her hands along the planes of his back, placing kisses on his collarbone. He tangles his fingers in her braid and breathes in, out, lets this peace he’s found wash over him. Eyes closed, he can see how their fingers paint lines of light along each other’s skin, fading from gold to pink to violet as hands move. Her kisses climb from his collarbone up the side of his neck, along his jaw until he tips his chin to catch her lips with his own. There is no rush to any of their attentions; while his heart is lightened, his body is heavy, languid with exhaustion and contentment. All around them is warmth and safety, a quiet that he might otherwise wonder at, but he tosses the thought aside without consideration. She is in his arms again, whole and happy, and she loves him. The world could end outside their bed and he would pay it no mind.

Often he imagined this reunion as he made his way to the fortress. Fear and hope warred within him, and every night he sought guidance in prayer. He begged for her survival, offered his life in her place if it meant that she would return home to her sister. And he asked more practical questions as well, no longer the juvenile angling of youth, seeking a path to ecstasy that allowed him to maintain his oath, but rather a wish to find balance between his loves - his fealty to Andraste and his heart’s desire to have Hawke at his side. 

His earlier comparison between the two was unjust to each of them, he’d found. Andraste is no mortal bride, and wed to the Maker. Sebastian loves her without reservation, and he has sworn himself to her, but must that mean that there can be no room in his life for the warmth of a companion? Some pleasures are beyond him, and this he can accept, but is it the will of the Maker that he should be alone in all his days, his heart divided? No answer came to him then, and he feared that he would be unable to share himself with Hawke as he so longed to, but here, now, with her, he feels only acceptance, from without as well as within. There is no shame, no fear or guilt in this. There is only love, and he is sure that they are blessed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! It really means a lot to me to see what people think of this story, and while I know I don't always keep up at replies, know that I read every comment and always want to respond. Sometimes I just need to find the words. 
> 
> Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	32. A Moment's Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke's work with the Wardens isn't done, but that doesn't mean she and Sebastian can't take advantage of their hospitality to spend some time relaxing. There will be work enough soon.

Sebastian has no idea how long they slept. The sunlight through the window is sharp and cold, but the window is too deep set in the stone for him to see the sky. He doesn’t want to know yet anyway, doesn’t want to leave the space where they are and return to reality beyond the door. He’s slow to wake, warm and comfortable with a solid shape snuggled in close along his side. They’ve both shifted during the night. Sebastian is on his back, Hawke wrapped around him, one leg slung over his, her arm around his waist and her head on his shoulder. Flaxen hair that pulled loose in the night fans out on his chest and on the pillows around them. He looks down at her and smiles, recalling their confessions from the night before and all that came after.

He is in bed with the woman he loves, and she loves him, and they will leave this place and start a life together today. At least this is what he hopes, but first he has this morning with her. 

Sebastian reaches over with his free hand to brush a lock of hair away from her face. Her brow furrows and her nose scrunches up as it tickles her, and she brings a hand up to scratch only to find his hand there. It’s adorable, and his heart stumbles to see it, to be allowed to be this close and to know that he is wanted here with someone so sweet as Hawke. She deserves peace, every day, even if he knows that that would bore her until she started trouble of her own. To see her like this, however, all the lines in her face relaxed - it is what he wants for her. What he will fight by her side to give her.

She stirs, pulling herself yet still closer to him, her leg curling around his beneath the covers. He holds her close, one arm wrapped around her back, the other tracing lines on her arm. 

“Good morning,” he whispers, turning his head so that his breath moves over her hair. “If you want it to be. You can go back to sleep if you like.”

The noise she makes isn’t quite a grunt, but close, and she turns to burrow into him, away from the light. She shakes her head, her nose dragging along the muscle of his shoulder, and turns again to rest her cheek on his skin, looking up at him with bleary, half-open eyes. “I’m awake.”

“You’re really not,” he chuckles, reaching across and brushing her hair away from her face again to tuck it behind her ear. This is one more marvel for him to experience, this morning with her by his side. It is sweeter and warmer than he dared to hope for, and more than he ever imagined he could allow himself to have with her. The idea of it always seemed fraught with temptation, but there was nothing but contentment and pleasure last night, and now as well.

“I want to be awake,” she sighs, bringing one hand up to rub at her eyes. “You’re up.”

“I’ve always been an early riser, but I don’t want to disturb you.” 

“Always?” He can see she’s fighting to stay conscious, but if she wants to ask questions, he’ll answer them.

“When I was a boy, I liked to get up early and spend time with my grandfather. He had the most energy in the morning, so I think it was easier for him to keep up with me.” The memory makes him smile, and he sighs to himself before continuing. “Then later, when I joined the Chantry, I found the quiet mornings peaceful, good for prayer, meditation and archery. So far this morning I’ve not done more than linger here, but I wouldn’t say I mind, after the night we had.”

She blinks once, twice, slowly, and he turns his hand to brush his knuckles along her cheek. When she looks up at him, there is infinite softness and warmth, but it lasts only as long as the last words he speaks, changing to fear as her eyes go wide and she pulls away from him.

“Sebastian.” Her hand is on his chest where she’s pushed herself up, and he rests his own on top of it. Pale green eyes catch the sunlight as she searches his face, then looks down, one hand coming up to rub at her forehead. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you, love.” He tries the word out and finds that he likes the feel of it when he says it to her. He could get used to this, but she clearly isn’t.

“No, you--” She shakes her head, looking around the room before coming back to him, her expression concerned. “What kind of night did we have?”

He doesn’t mean to laugh, but it bubbles up from his chest all the same. Of all the reactions he could have imagined from her at the thought of them spending the night together, panic was never on the list. “We slept, Padi. That’s all. You were exhausted.”

He can see in her eyes as it comes back to her, piece by piece. Her brow softens, the lines around her mouth fade and her shoulders slump. At last, she lays down again, her face hidden against his stomach.

“Would it have been so bad, if we’d done something else?” He asks, dragging his fingers through her hair where she rests, as if he could pull the distress from her mind. 

“Your vow,” she mumbles, her voice vibrating over his skin. “It’s important. I don’t want-- “ She turns her head to look up at him. “I don’t ever want to take more than you’re prepared to give to me.”

Sebastian shakes his head. Her concern is touching in a way, to think that she could still worry about this after all the time they’ve spent together. “You’ve not taken anything I didn’t want to share with you,” he replies. “If anything, I kept this from us both for far too long. I was so worried about my own ability to control myself that I denied us the pleasure of something as simple as this, waking up together. I want to do this every day.”

She blushes at that, grinning and nodding a little. “I’d like that, too.”

“I look forward to us leaving here as soon as possible so that we can get started,” he admits. It’s strange to say out loud; seeing Weisshaupt was a dream of his for so long, but now that he’s here, he wants nothing more than to put it behind him and return to Starkhaven. The reality of the fortress and the Wardens within has been disappointing, and any knowledge or experience he could find here would pale in comparison to what he has beside him now, and the future they have before them.

Hawke nods, pushing herself up to sit and untangling their legs under the blanket. “So do I, but there are things I need to do first. I didn’t come to Weisshaupt from the Western Approach because it was convenient.” 

She starts pulling at her hair while she talks, what locks are still in the braid and bun reluctant to loosen. Sebastian watches her fuss for a moment, hampered by whatever injury left her wrist bruised, then sits up, covering her hands with his own.

“May I try?” He asks, already shifting his gaze over the mess of hair at the back of her head.

She turns her head slowly to look at him, eyes wide but smiling. “If you’d like to, sure.”

The task is easier said than done, he soon discovers. She explains a little to help him, that there are pins as well as ties holding some of it in place, and he can work a little faster after that, searching through soft waves for errant bits of metal on his way to the tightly wound strips of leather at the start and end of the braid. Hawke is still and patient, though he notices that she leans into his touch whenever his fingers find her scalp, and her head starts to tilt loosely after a few minutes.

“What do you need to do for the Wardens before we leave?” He adds another pin to the small pile on the bed beside him, pausing to massage her scalp where he’d loosened the last bit of the bun. It is obvious to him now that she’s said it, that she went to Weisshaupt for a reason.

Hawke shrugs with one shoulder. “They need help. They probably don’t think they do, but they do. They suffered incredible losses in Adamant. So many mages were possessed, so many warriors sacrificed for their plans, to say nothing of the mess I left them with.”

The braid unfurls to fall heavy down her back, nothing holding it but the last two leather ties, one at her nape and one at the bottom of the braid in his hand. “What do you mean, you left them with?” He asks as he starts pulling at the knot.

“I didn’t finish what I started,” she explains, glancing back at him over her shoulder. “I thought I killed Corypheus. I was so sure, but clearly I was wrong. He’s still alive, and that makes it my responsibility, to help the Wardens recover from what he did to them.”

The tie on her hair is stubborn, and Sebastian channels his frustration into the knot, ripping off tiny leather fibers between his stubby nails. “As I recall, these same Wardens hired Carta Dwarves and lured you into the mountains to use your blood to free this monster.”

“Yes, but--”

“Your blood,” he continues, tugging at loop after loop now that the knot is loosened, “which they needed because they forced your father to help them imprison him to begin with.”

“Sebastian--” She tries again, but again he pushes. 

“It seems to me that if anyone should be helping anyone here--”

Her hair slides through his hands when she leans away from him, moving to the end of the bed and standing in quick, fluid movements that leave him quiet, looking down at his hands. He pushes the blankets back and swings his legs over the side of the bed to set his feet on the floor, but doesn’t stand. Instead he follows her with his eyes as she paces the length of the room, bare feet whispering across the carpet and tapping at the cold stone floor.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He curls his fingers where his hands rest in his lap. He’d remembered what Bethany said about her sister’s hair and hoped for a moment of quiet intimacy between them, but the idea that Hawke owed the Wardens anything and needed to help them to clear some sort of debt frustrates him.

“Oh, no, not at all,” she replies distractedly, giving him a weak smile when she faces him. She’s quiet for a moment. “Stroud died because of me, Sebastian.” She stops and turns to look at him, her arms hugged around her body. Her brow is furrowed and her mouth is set in a thin, pale line. The silvery skin of her scar stands out against her sun-kissed forehead and cheeks, but the color doesn’t hide the dark circles under her eyes. She worries at her lower lip for a moment while she stares back at him. “So many dead, at Adamant and in their rituals besides. Other Wardens, good men and women who would never have come into these circumstances if I did my job in the Vimmark Mountains. They were leaderless after Adamant, after the Fade.” She rolls her eyes up and away and shakes her head, blinking back tears at memories Sebastian has no way to understand. “I can’t just walk away. I need to do what I can to help them rebuild after this. I don’t know how long it will take, but I need to help them put this behind them.”

Arguments well up in his mouth and push his tongue against his teeth. The Grey Wardens have fascinated him since he was a boy, but against Hawke there is no question of whose side he will choose. From everything he understands of the situation, she’s wrong. Hawke had nothing to do with Corypheus’ imprisonment and was forced to free him in order to escape herself, and holds no responsibility whatsoever for his return. He would argue that being forced to kill him once is enough, that the Wardens brought this down on their own heads and they can all burn for dragging her so far into this that she feels any obligation at all to continue. 

None of this, however, is what Hawke needs to hear. He will not be able to change her mind, and even as he is furious to think of what she’s been through, he cannot help but overflow with pride and love for her and her generous heart, that she would help the Wardens after all they’ve done to her family. 

“Heavy conversation before breakfast,” he mutters as he stands and steps towards her. She offers little resistance when he unwraps her arms. He means only to hold her hands but she moves into his space immediately, her arms going from holding her own frame to holding him. “I didn’t mean to push so hard. I just worry this will be a fruitless cause on your part, and I’d hate to see that.”

She shakes her head, turning to rest her cheek against his chest. “I understand if you can’t stay, but I need to do this.”

This time it’s Sebastian’s turn to shake his head. The thought of her here alone draws a chill through him. “I’m not leaving here without you, Hawke. I arranged things before I left; the city will be fine in my absence. You are too important for me to leave, now and every day after. I will help you with this, in whatever way you need it.”

Hawke leans back enough to look up at him, a shy smile warming her face when her eyes meet his. He is unprepared for it when she pops up onto her toes and kisses him, one hand splayed on the side of his face to hold him still. It’s chaste and sweet, too short even if she lingers a moment, her eyes falling slowly closed as he watches her. 

“Thank you for staying,” she murmurs, so little space between them that he feels the brush of her lips against his own when she speaks. She moves away but stays in the embrace, just shifting enough to look at him, her gaze flicking from his mouth to his eyes and back as she sinks down onto her feet again. “I don’t relish the idea of having to do this, just to be clear, but I’m glad I won’t have to do it alone.”

They linger together in the middle of the room, wrapped around each other while the world continues outside. Sebastian’s skin is too warm under his clothes everywhere that she touches him, almost tingling with energy, and he hopes that the sensation never stops accompanying her embraces and caresses. He would keep her safe within the circle of his arms until the end of time if he could, but she would never have it. She is happiest when she can save someone; Sebastian has been the object of her graces, as have all of Kirkwall, and now it is the Grey Wardens’ turn. 

The quiet peace around them is interrupted by a gurgle, loud and embarrassing in the still of the room. Hawke snickers, running her hand down from Sebastian’s chest as she pulls away from him. Her fingers settle over his empty stomach and it sounds again as if in response, and he sighs, letting his head fall back. He’d been so occupied in the library that he’d missed most of the day, and when he saw Hawke again all other sensations fell to the wayside. It’s been almost a full day since he ate anything.

“You did mention something about breakfast, didn’t you?” She grins up at him as he tries to bite down on his own smile, his cheeks flushed and tight. He nods and she turns, her touch lingering as long as possible while she makes her way to the door. “I thought I heard earlier-- Yes! Here.”

While he watches, Hawke crouches where she’s opened the door. Her braid is undone, now a wavy mess of a ponytail that runs down her back. There is the sound of metal on metal, and when she stands again, she turns into the room with a tray in her hands filled with covered dishes.

“I thought I heard someone knock on the door earlier, but it was so soft I assumed I dreamed it,” she explains as she carries the tray to the table. “No idea if any of this is still any good. Let’s see what we have.”

Sebastian rushes to take the tray from her. While the pain in her leg appears to be gone, her wrist is still clearly bothering her, and she winces when she lets go and follows him to the small table. Under the covers they find bread, butter, jams, as well as sliced meats and cheeses. Everything looks fine, and his mouth waters as the scent of it all fills the room around them. There is a note in one corner that Sebastian plucks up while Hawke busies herself with slicing off the end of the bread.

“It’s from Warden Brenn--Rory,” he says as he reads, picking up a piece of meat with his free hand. “That was him knocking that you heard. The First Warden would like to meet with you at the first available opportunity, but if we’d like to freshen up better than a ‘basin in the corner’--” He reads it twice just to be sure he’s really understood. “There are bathing rooms with pools below the fortress, tapped into an underground spring, apparently.”

Hawke’s eyes go wide and she snatches the paper out of his hand. He grins, watching her read as he pops the meat into his mouth, then cuts off a piece of bread for himself. There is a rudimentary map at the bottom of the note showing how to get to the chambers in the lowest level of Weisshaupt. Her brows furrow when she gets to it, turning the paper over, then returning to the map as if it needs to be memorized before they go out.

“A real bath,” she sighs as she takes another piece of bread, covering this one in butter and jam. “I don’t remember when I had a real bath, one that you can soak in and stretch out and all that. Definitely not since...”

The end of the sentence dies when she looks up at him, her eyes darting to the side as if to hide her thoughts him from. She hasn’t had a bath like that since she left Starkhaven, he imagines. 

“Then I think you should take advantage of the Grey Wardens’ hospitality for as long as you’re able,” he replies. It will do neither of them any good to linger on that now, and Sebastian is more than happy to leave it in the past and begin again from last night’s reunion. Hawke looks to him again, and the smile she gives him is reassuring.

They eat quickly, then gather fresh clothes and make their way through the fortress. Sebastian takes his time to linger in the hallways today, stopping to examine tapestries and paintings until Hawke tugs at his hand to get him moving again. They make their way down a long spiral staircase, the air growing warm and humid as they descend. 

Magelight sconces lend an eerie green glow to the hallway with rows of doors on either side. Sebastian and Hawke exchange a glance. There should be no danger here, but such hallways rarely bode well for them in his experience. There is no sunlight, no people, and no sound, not even that of running water. 

Sebastian steps forward and pushes on the first door. It swings open easily, revealing a small square room. A stone tub sinks into the floor in the center, and along the walls are racks of towels, soaps, oils, and other bottles that he can’t identify from a glance. There are mirrors along the far wall, as well as benches set in along one side. The pool itself is easily large enough for two people, perhaps more depending on how intimate one might be with one’s fellow Wardens.

Hawke sets a hand on his waist and leans in to look past him. “It looks the same on the other side of the hall.” She whispers but it echoes nonetheless, her voice bouncing off the stone around them. “It’s empty there, too. I suppose we’re getting a rather late start to our day.”

Sebastian does little more than nod as her words come to him through a fog thicker than the heavy, damp air. He is giddy to the point of distraction at the thought of a future filled with such casual touches from her, each new brush of skin seeming to further cement this bond that they renewed the night before. 

“It’s big enough to share,” Hawke muses. The observation is light with no curl of underlying suggestion, and when Sebastian turns to look down at her, her eyes are widened in surprise and her mouth hangs slack. “I mean, if you wanted to,” she adds. The smile she tries to give him does not dissipate the nervousness in her gaze.

A blush blooms on her cheeks as she looks back at him, waiting for an answer, and Sebastian can feel a similar warmth creep over his own skin, independent of the heat of the bathing rooms. Last night was a revelation, that he could be so close to Hawke and feel so much peace and security, and also so little temptation. It was the crossing of a boundary that he was glad to leave behind him, but the thought of something more so soon after is too much for him.

“Perhaps some other time, Hawke.” He reaches out and brushes the backs of his knuckles along her cheeks, a thrill running through him when her eyes flutter closed and she leans into the touch. “Thank you for the offer.”

She nods, the movement still sharp and quick as she steps away from him, back towards the room across the hall. “I look forward to it, should it ever happen.” Hawke pauses. “So, I guess we should?” Her thumbs points over her shoulder as if to end the question.

“I suppose,” he replies, reluctant to move and put a door between them once again. “We can meet here again afterwards.” The words are meant to reassure her as much as Sebastian himself, and for his part he hopes they work better on Hawke. 

Despite the agreement, they both stand unmoving. For Sebastian’s part, he doesn’t want to be the first to turn away, wanting to see her for as long as he can, as well as a vague, lingering concern about how isolated they’ll be in the meantime. After a moment, Hawke laughs, shaking her head and stepping to push open the door with her back.

“Now that you’re here, I don’t want to stop looking at you,” she sighs. “But Maker’s breath do I need a wash. Be back soon.”

She disappears into the room with a last, warm smile, and Sebastian waits until her door is closed before slipping into his own room and locking the door.

He adds a few drops of some earthy, herbal oil to the warm water and sinks down into the pool. The heat works on his muscles until he’s loose and boneless, resting his head against one of the stone edges and staring up at the ceiling covered in smooth tiles in a random collection of blues and greys, another small reminder of just where he is.

It is incredible to him that the last few days have been reality and not some wild dream imagined by his melancholy mind between much darker nightmares of Hawke and what she could be facing. Every day he fought against the urge to give in to despair, forcing himself to believe that she would be fine, that she was safe and would return as soon as she was able. While she has yet to say as much, the evening’s reunion and her warmth towards him this morning leave him certain that when her work here is done, she will return to Starkhaven with him. Hawke is not as fickle as he is, warm and free with his affections one day only to pull back in fear and uncertainty the next. She has always been steadfast in her devotion, promising to wait and then keeping that promise until his own inability to see drove her away. 

He closes his eyes and listens to the gentle click of the water against the side of the pool, focuses on the way his breathing fills the space around him. “Thank you for watching over her,” he whispers, furrowing his brow. “Thank you, Maker, for protecting her when I could not, for shining Your Light on her in whatever darkness she fell into on her path. I know I failed her,” he continues, frowning into the empty room. “I hurt her, and in doing so risked one of the greatest miracles that You brought into my life. To have her back at my side fills my heart in a way I no longer thought possible.”

The water swirls around him as he shifts. The pool is too deep to sit in, and when he tries to kneel the surface is so close as to tickle his lips and nose when he bends his head. Sighing, he collects a cloth from the stack at the far side of the pool and wets it, scrubbing at his skin while he continues. 

“Blessed Andraste, Bride of the Maker, know that my vow to you brings me peace and joy. I am proud to walk this path, and while I know that I am never alone while you are with me, I also know that you would want me to be happy, if it is true happiness and not the shallow, artificial bliss of my younger days. Hawke makes me want to be a better man, just as you do. I am proud to have her love, I want to please her and sing her praises, and I am stronger when she is at my side. I love her,” he sighs, smiling to himself. It is still a new sentiment to speak out loud, but he hopes the feeling never fades, this pull to smile when he says those words. “And I can better serve you, The Maker, and the people of my city when she is with me. I trust in your compassion to allow her a place at my side, to surround her with the same grace that you have given me. I felt no conflict in my soul last night, and I pray that that is a sign, a gift from you, and I am ever thankful for it.”

The last words linger in the air for a moment before Sebastian is enveloped in silence again. He is not one to require tangible signs as proof for his faith, but there is some part of him that would be comforted to know that his decision is accepted. The laws of the Chantry are written by men and women doing their best to serve the Maker, but Sebastian’s vow is a more private, personal thing for him, something offered to Andraste not from a place formed of loyalty to the Chantry, but of love for the Maker and His Bride. The same is true of his love for Hawke; it is between the two of them and no one else. He waits in the quiet, unsure what he would even look for as a sign.

“Sebastian, are you still in there?” Hawke’s question is followed by a gentle tapping on the locked door. 

Warmth blooms out from Sebastian’s chest and washes over him at the sound of her voice, unrelated to the damp heat of the air in the room. The sensation skips down his nerves like sparks and flows into his veins and muscle, slow-moving molten light that glows when he closes his eyes. Every part of him is filled with bright, soft love for her, and his smile is effortless and unbidden when he calls to her.

“I’ll be out in a moment, my love.” The words start a new wave of affection within him that lightens his steps and pulls his grin out so far that his cheeks ache by the time he’s dressed and opened the door. His hair is still damp, combed back from his face with his fingers as best he could, and he’s dressed in a simple shirt and pants, unsure what the day has in store for him and not wanting to carry more than he needed down to the baths.

Hawke’s hair is tousled, a mess of towel-dried damp waves and heavier locks still dark with water. Her skin is a soft, flushed pink, no doubt also freshly scrubbed. The shirt she’s wearing hangs more loosely on her frame than he recalls, in a pale undyed linen that stops just at the waist of her leggings. She is still barefoot, holding her nightclothes under one arm and her boots in the other. 

“Thought for a second there I might have to break down the door and rescue you.” Her eyes move over him slowly, and she smiles when she says it. Sebastian isn’t used to such deliberate attention, lowering his eyes and looking away towards the stairs, unsure how to respond. There is so much that he wants to say, but now doesn’t seem the right time for any of the words that crowd into his mind. He startles at Hawke’s hand on his chest, watching as her fingers move over his shirt before pinching at a bit of lint and plucking it off.

Her hand is still warm from her bath when Sebastian catches it. His eyes lock with her and he watches her watch him, her expression settling from surprised to pleased as he brings her hand up and kisses the backs of her knuckles one at a time. She curls her fingers around his hand as he goes, and he breathes in the soft floral scent of whatever oils and perfumes she’d managed to find for herself. It’s a scent he wouldn’t have looked for in a place like this, but one that fits her so well that perhaps it’s just her skin and nothing else that smells so soft and familiar.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” he murmurs, keeping her hand close to his lips. Her fingers flex, and Sebastian flicks his gaze down only to look up at her again, pausing as she opens her mouth only to close it again, appearing to fight against a grin that tugs at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes hide nothing, however, sparkling with happiness that stays even when she takes her hand back.

Hawke clears her throat and gives him a little nod. “We should head up. I’d like to at least brush off my armor before I put it back on. I don’t have anything nice to wear, but I think the First Warden will expect something a little more dressed up than this.”

“You’re here to offer help, as I understand it,” he replies as they set off up the stairs, Sebastian’s hand on the small of her back. “They would be wise to accept it no matter how it comes dressed. Speaking as someone who personally benefited from your assistance, I didn’t care a whiff if you turned up to the Chantry in a tunic or plate armor or a ball gown. I cared about what you’d done for me, the closure you brought me.” He works to keep the frustration out of his voice. Kirkwall never knew what they had in their Champion, and he cannot help but suspect that the Wardens will be the same, taking what they can from her without taking into consideration that Hawke will give everything she has.

They reach the top of the stairs and turn a corner. Hawke hums agreement, glancing at him. “True, but you’d also asked for help. Help that came with payment, but help nonetheless. The Wardens haven’t done that.” The words come slowly, and Hawke narrows her eyes, thinking as they walk. “It might be harder than you expect to get them to admit that they’ve made mistakes and need anything at all.”

Sebastian hurries his steps to move in front of her, opening the door and letting her go inside first. The tray from breakfast is still there, the room untouched from when they left it. Hawke drops her clothes from the night before on the floor beside her bag and picks up her breastplate, sighing as she turns it in her hands. The burn marks and scratches are more visible in the bright daylight that spills into the room.

“I don’t recognize that, is it new?” Sebastian folds his own clothes and sets them neatly off to one side by his pack, bending down and pulling out his belt.

Hawke nods. “The Inquisition gave it to me, said it was good that I didn’t stick out too much. It’s good quality so I didn’t complain, but I did miss my own. I still have it with me,” she continues, her tone lightening as she lays the armor back across the chair. “It just feels a little shabby, I suppose, after wearing something like that. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to wearing a uniform.”

The look she gives the Inquisition armor is almost wistful, but hearing that she has her own with her, Sebastian folds away the cloth in his hand that he’d thought to give her to try to salvage the Inquisition breastplate. “You saved a city in that armor,” he reminds her. “You fought off a Qunari invasion, rescued the Viscount’s son--”

“He didn’t want to be rescued,” she sighs, shaking her head.

“You didn’t know that at the time. You also tried to save a Saarebas, saved Orana, Feynriel. Not to mention helping an impetuous, spoiled Prince with the violent revenge that he was too weak to carry out on his own.” There’s conviction behind every word, and he’s holding the cloth in his hand so tightly that a dull ache starts to creep up his wrist.

Her head falls to the side as she looks at him, her soft smile giving way to a wry look and a smirk. “Now let’s be clear. That one I did for money.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. She’s not wrong, but he also knows better now. “It was, but you would’ve done it for free if you’d heard my story.”

She pops her eyebrows up and shrugs with one shoulder in a conciliatory gesture as she leans down to collect her bag from the floor. She upends it onto the bed, and there among her supplies Sebastian sees the familiar pale brown leather and green cloth of her armor, so close to the Inquisition’s colors that he can forgive himself for not seeing the difference the night before.

“That is the armor of someone who helps, someone who saves people,” he continues, gesturing towards it as she holds up the pieces to inspect them. “If that’s shabby, and they turn down your help because of it, then they were never worth you to begin with.” That he is unconvinced of the Wardens deserving her help either way is besides the point. Hawke needs to understand her own importance, and that it can be measured and found substantial without having to rely on some other party’s involvement.

“I don’t even know what I’m going to tell them. I have to assume they knew, right? How could Weisshaupt not have known, if so many Wardens were involved?” She frowns at the clothing in her hands as if it’s at fault for not answering her questions, and Sebastian sees now that her concerns go much deeper than the simple matter of what she will wear to tell them. Hawke brings terrible tidings with her, news that could undo the Grey Wardens if it were to spread too widely. 

He crosses the room to stand behind her, tossing his belt onto the bed among her things and slipping his arms around her waist. She drops the armor and leans back against him, covering his hands with her own. “Tell them everything,” he says, resting his chin on her shoulder, his mouth close to her ear. “Tell them that you want to help them, but let them decide. You are not one of them, and you cannot force them to accept help they don’t see that they need. I won’t let you ruin yourself trying to mend what they might not see as broken.”

Hawke pushes back against him, and he tightens his arms around her. He is shaken to think that the Grey Wardens were working with Corypheus, by all understanding one of the very beings their order was created to destroy. There must be some sort of explanation, and while he would like to hear it, he would also gladly leave this fortress with no more understanding than he has today, if it meant leaving with Hawke safe and happy.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she murmurs, giving his hands a squeeze before pulling them apart. “I didn’t like the thought of doing this alone, but I couldn’t ask anyone else from the Inquisition to go with me.”

He nods, dropping his arms to his sides and giving her some room. She dresses quickly, wrapping her uncombed hair into a bun high on her head, and Sebastian rushes to put on his armor as well, wanting to present a united front to them in whatever way he can. When she turns to look at him again, he is struck by a wave of nostalgia, recalling so well the day she’d come into the Chantry to tell him about Flint Company.

“Well, time to go find where the Wardens are hidden in Weisshaupt, then,” she says with a sigh. Sebastian nods and follows her to the door. “Let’s get this over with.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! It really means a lot to me to see what people think of this story, and while I know I don't always keep up at replies, know that I read every comment and always want to respond. Sometimes I just need to find the words. 
> 
> Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	33. Departing Weisshaupt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is only so much that can be done for the Grey Wardens when they close ranks and treat Hawke as an outsider. In the end, Sebastian and Hawke decide it's best to leave them to it, and start their journey back to Starkhaven.

All told, they spend almost a week at Weisshaupt fortress before giving up and leaving. The nights are filled with more careful exploration and warm embraces, but the days are frustrating and arduous, with hours of arguments that go in circles, leading nowhere as the Wardens fight to keep their secrets. In the end, even with Hawke at his side Sebastian leaves Weisshaupt in worse spirits than he’d been at his arrival. The Grey Wardens are in chaos, yet desperate to keep their internal conflicts behind closed doors. He watched as she tried to help them, done as she always tried to do in Kirkwall, talked and negotiated, explained, even offered to stay longer if they felt that it would do some good to have her there, but time and again she was dismissed, informed that this was something they could and would solve among themselves. 

Her experiences in the Vimmark Mountains and at Adamant turned into testimony offered to a closed council, argued against by those who hadn’t been there, as if Hawke herself stood accused. Sebastian was only able to stand by, helpless as she described to them what they saw in the Warden prison, screaming herself hoarse at them for the threats to her father and her family, none of them a part of the Grey Wardens and yet forced into service. 

_ “You would have killed my mother, and me besides, had he not helped you, and now you seek to deflect the truths that I bring to you and ignore the danger your order has brought upon the world.”  _

_ The First Warden settled into his high-backed chair, fingers steepled, certain of his own righteousness. “There was only your mother.” _

_ “I was born months later! It’s more than enough that you did this to her and my father, but it wasn’t only her that you threatened!” _

Hawke showed pity for Warden-Commander Larius only to be dismissed, those assembled certain that he was long dead, that it could not have been him that she encountered, while at the same time speaking in bitter tones about the loss of Janeka and those Wardens she took with her.

She tried to tell them of the sacrifice that Stroud made in the end, for the honor of the Wardens and for the good of all of Thedas, but they would not listen to the tale of a traitor who refused to come when called, even knowing that his following them might have meant his death as surely as he found it in the Fade.

_ “You must understand, Champion. The Order requires that Wardens come when they are summoned. We will never defeat a Blight any other way.” _

_ Hawke shook her head, still standing her group before them. “This was no Blight. This was your own corruption.” _

_ “That does not mean we can ignore that he refused a direct order and betrayed the Grey Wardens.” It was not the First Warden who spoke, but someone else, an older woman with silver hair, speaking as though to a child. _

_ “And in so doing saved us all!” Hawke raked a hand through her hair as she fought to keep herself calm. “Had Stroud died as a blood magic sacrifice for your foolish plans, the entire Warden army would be enslaved to Corypheus. What he did was not treason, First Warden; he was trying to save the Order from itself.” _

_ “You are perhaps not the person who should be speaking of failure when it comes to Corypheus, Hawke.” _

Sebastian’s wonder when he’d come to the fortress faded for each day that they’d stayed, turning translucent and brittle like wax, a childhood worship that he could think of no better time to set aside than now. 

Warden Brenn is the only one to see them off, asking that they take a package with them back to his family in Starkhaven and apologizing again for the other Wardens’ inability to see. Sebastian accepts the package with a wan smile, placing it carefully into one of his saddlebags and reminding Brenn that he will always be welcome at the Keep, even if other members of the order might not be.

The portcullis clatters shut behind them with a harsh finality, and not a single silver-on-blue uniform is seen in the village as they make their way through it. The Wardens have closed ranks, so desperate to keep their secrets and what honor they have left that they’ve sent away the best offer of help they are likely to receive. Sebastian frowns at the road ahead of them, at the horizon, even at the back of his horse’s head as they ride. Hawke is with him, and he will not discount that, but the trip was disillusioning, with the better part of Grey Wardens’ glory and valor being found only in the library in tales of their past, and not at all in the present leadership.

“The Inquisition recruited the Wardens.” They’re the first words Hawke has offered since they left the fortress, and they come not long after they’ve put the village behind them. “They’re going to try to help them rebuild. I wish the Inquisitor luck with that. I think she’ll need it.”

Sebastian can only hum agreement. “It’ll be hard work, if the way they treated you is any indication.” 

Hawke sighs and shakes her head as if trying to dismiss the thoughts. “They have their secrets, and knowing the ones I know, I can see why it’s important to them to keep them. They’ll fare better, all of them, after this, but I don’t know if that’s enough to save them from themselves.”

“What was she like, the Inquisitor?” Sebastian finds he’s eager to speak of other things, and Hawke spoke little of the Inquisition at all while they were at the fortress. “She must be generous, to give you armor and such a beautiful steed.” He’d seen the horse first when they were getting ready to leave: a stunning bay color, broad and sturdy, calm when Hawke approached but with obvious power in its form.

“I don’t know if she knows I have the horse,” she laughs. “I needed to get to Weisshaupt quickly, and there were no Grey Warden horses left at Adamant. He’s been a good companion, so I might just forget to tell them that he’s with me.” Hawke pauses for a moment, then sighs. “No, I have to at least let their Horsemaster know. He’s a good man, from outside Redcliffe. He said the horses perked up as soon as they heard me talking. Not a lot of Fereldens up in Skyhold, apparently.” She leans down to stroke the horse’s neck affectionately, its ears flicking in response.

“I’m glad you found that there,” he replies, unsure what else to say. When he imagined Hawke with the Inquisition, they were all nameless, faceless soldiers there to demand things of her. He knew that Varric was there, and Cullen as well, but other than that, he knew nothing of them apart from their goal of closing the Breach, and that Seeker Pentaghast finally succeeded in taking Hawke away from him. He knew deep down that that wasn’t entirely true, but it hurt less to blame them than to consider that leaving was Hawke’s decision alone.

“She’s an Elf.” Hawke’s voice pulls Sebastian back to the surface from the dark depths of the memories he’d sunken into, and he turns to look at her, blinking slowly as he recalls his earlier question. “The Inquisitor. It’s not something that gets a lot of mention, I imagine. I was surprised when I met her, at any rate. She seemed capable, if not entirely thrilled by my being there. I kept to myself for the most part. There were more people there that I recognized than I expected.”

“Were there any problems with them?” His temper wakes, the muscles in his jaw tensing. He offered friendship to the Inquisition and he meant it and meant to abide by it, but if they called on Hawke for help only to hurt her, his support could be taken away just as quickly.

Hawke shakes her head. “Not really, no. Cullen looks well, sort of. Different. Better and worse at the same time, which I suppose I understand. Seeker Pentaghast didn’t mention at all that she’d come looking for me, though I thought I saw something in her eyes. They all like Varric, and I think that helped, if I’m honest.”

Sebastian nods, the flame within him subsiding as quickly as it flared. “I’m relieved to hear that. They were--” He stops. The theft of his journal happened while she was away, and it would be petty to trouble her with it now. He has no doubt that she had no idea about the plot, but also knows that she will be disappointed to have lost the research. “I have found myself less impressed with them of late, and I’m glad to hear that they treated you well.”

“There was a Qunari there.” She lets the sentence hang between them, and he sees it when he looks at her, the remnants of fear in her eyes. “He must’ve been as big as the Arishok, but with no armor at all, really. He seemed happy enough among them all, had a band of mercenaries there with him. I didn’t know they could do that, have groups of their own like that.” Sebastian nods thoughtfully, letting her talk without interruption as he watches her. She sets a hand on her stomach as she tells him about the Iron Bull, idly rubbing at her scar through her shirt. 

She tells him about many of them as they ride, elven archers and Tevinter mages, other former Templars and apostates now working together for a cause greater than all of them. Sometimes she speaks with admiration, other times with quiet concern. A group as large as the Inquisition will have all types in it, he supposes, and while it’s frustrating to think that so many people there might have no idea who Hawke was and what she’d done before arriving at Skyhold, he’s glad in a way to hear that she wasn’t alone there, and that what she found is an organization with a common goal and good people working towards it.

The sun is still painting the horizon behind them in pinks and oranges when they decide to make camp, the last of the day’s heat dogging their heels as if to push them away from Weisshaupt. Bethany’s runes expedited the journey for both of them, and they’re more or less out of the desert when they stop for the night, sand and hardened earth giving way to dry, golden grasses and wide, low trees. The small cluster of trees they find has been cleared of grass, likely used as a campsite by others before them along the road from Vol Dorma to Weisshaupt. 

“This is strange to say, but I almost hoped we’d make it to Tevinter before we had to stop.” Hawke leads the horses to a tree and ties their reins around a low branch, running her hand along each of their necks. They pay her little mind, flicking their tails and lowering their heads to what grass they can reach. 

“We’ll make it by midday tomorrow, I think, and things will go much faster once we’re on the Highway,” Sebastian replies. They’d split the rune between them before setting off, so the day’s travel wasn’t quite the breakneck pace he’d set on his own, but still plenty quick and undisturbed. 

Hawke crouches by the circle of stones and ash set up under one of the trees. There’s little by way of kindling other than tufts of grass, and she sighs, elbows resting on her knees. “This makes me miss my sister. I have to admit, I got good at not having to start fires myself. There was always a mage, and they always seemed glad enough to wave a hand and poof! Fire.” She gestures at the blackened circle but nothing happens. 

“Your sister had little faith in my ability to fend for myself,” Sebastian says with a chuckle. He unsheathes one of the daggers at his side and tosses it towards her, careful to make sure it falls so that the blade sticks in the side by her feet. “She put a fire rune on that one. All I had to do was strike it against a rock.”

Her laugh startles a bird to flight from the grass behind them, and Sebastian grins to hear it. Hawke tugs the dagger free and laughs again, shaking her head as she looks at it. He watches her as she moves around the camp, pulling up handfuls of grass and snapping dry, dead twigs from the trees’ lower branches. 

“It’s something I must admit I’d been blind to before I met you and Bethany, and Merrill. The Chantry teaches that magic is dangerous and needs to be controlled, but does little to highlight how practical magic can be when wielded responsibly.” There is a name that Sebastian leaves unspoken when he speaks of the mages Hawke brought into his life, but if she notices, then she says nothing as she returns to the fire pit, dumping the brush and branches in a haphazard pile. 

“Are we sure we want a fire?” She glances away back over shoulder, even though Weisshaupt vanished from their view some time ago. “Might attract attention.”

“I suspect we’re in more danger from wildlife than bandits out here, and a fire would do good to keep them at bay,” he replies. “I’ll sit watch later all the same, but I think it’s all right for now.”

Hawke considers for a moment, then nods and turns back to the fire. The dagger scrapes against the stones once, then again, sparks floating up into the cooling evening air before the dagger flames up briefly, catching the grass and setting it alight. She sits back, bringing the dagger up in front of her face and staring into the flames. 

“It might seem strange,” she mutters, all her attention still on the dagger, “but so much of the time that I was there, I was thinking of Anders.”

The name rings between them like metal on metal, Sebastian’s skin and teeth buzzing from some unseen blow. The few cursory attempts he’s made to get her to talk about what happened have been unsuccessful, so when she starts to speak, he pauses to listen.

“Seeing those mages in the thrall of that Venatori, the way they sacrificed their brothers and sisters in the Wardens. They really thought that they were doing what was right.” She sighs, shaking the dagger to extinguish the flame. Her voice is wistful, and Sebastian swallows against the ache that comes at the base of his throat. He has no doubt that her time with the Inquisition brought with it pain and loss, but it’s one thing to imagine in abstract, and another to see her speak of it with furrowed brows and downturned eyes. “Anders was a Warden too. Would he have been up there on that pedestal with them, killing to bind demons to themselves to-- to try to kill the Old Gods?”

She sounds incredulous when she asks, and even to Sebastian it sounds far-fetched for the mage he knew. Anders wasn’t one to flaunt his membership in the Grey Wardens, and seemed to be on the run from them as much as the Templars. He was a man who valued his freedom above all else. 

“I can’t imagine that, not for him.” The words stick in his mouth when he speaks. Even after the time that’s passed, he still feels that he has little right to speak of Anders at all, even kindly. “It seems more likely that he would’ve gone into hiding like Stroud--”

He stops himself too late, seeing Hawke’s eyes go wide in the firelight. She hasn’t told him yet what happened to their contact in the Grey Wardens beyond it being her fault, a sentiment he doubts but cannot refute. There will be time to ask later, so for now Sebastian has attempted to strike some sort of balance with his questions, trying to show her support and give her room to tell him about her experiences without pushing for more information than she’s prepared to give. 

Her eyes shift, and she brings a hand to her mouth as she stares into the fire. Sebastian cannot imagine what scenes are playing out in front of her. Her hand trembles, and she drops her head to bury her face in her hands.

Sebastian stands and picks his way around their bags to her side, lowering himself carefully down next to her. Her breath hitches when he sets his hand lightly between her shoulder blades, but she doesn’t shy away, though she does shake her head. For a moment Sebastian thinks this is wrong, that she doesn’t want him there, but in the same instant that he starts to take his hand away, Hawke stills.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her face still hidden. He settles his hand on her back again and she nods slightly, alleviating his concern.

“Maker,” she mumbles. “Maker’s bloody breath, what did I do?” 

He cannot answer that, but instead wraps an arm around her shoulders and draws her closer. She goes without resistance, and he turns to press a kiss into her hair when she falls against him.

“I don’t know what you’ve gone through, but I know you.” He rests his chin on top of her head, relieved and grateful when she nestles closer to his side. “You always put others first. Whatever you were forced to do in order to survive, I cannot look down on it, because it means that you lived, and you’re here now. Whatever fate came to Stroud, it was not in vain.”

Her hand rests on his chest, and he covers it with one of his own, stroking his thumb over her knuckles. “The idea that Anders could’ve been there,” she mutters. 

“Anders was strong, and disciplined about his magic.” Sebastian nods a little as he says it, looking down to meet her watery gaze when she leans back. “And he wasn’t all that dedicated to being a Warden, either, as I recall, so it’s unlikely he would have heeded their call anyway. He would have been safe, Hawke, I’m sure of it.”

For a long moment she’s quiet, her gaze turned inward. “Justice wouldn’t have let anything else in, I think,” she sighs, looking up at him. She lifts one eyebrow. “I wouldn’t have expected you to speak so kindly of him, I must admit. I’m glad for it, though. I know you two rarely saw eye to eye on things.”

“We both loved you,” he answers immediately, and even if her smile is fleeting, the color on her cheeks lingers. “And I’m not too proud to admit that I learned a thing or two from him as well, I must admit. Anders changed the way that I view the Chantry and their treatment of mages, even if it’s taken me time to really understand it. I doubt he ever realized it, but he opened my eyes to injustices that I failed to recognize, even within the Chantry. It wasn’t easy to accept, and I can only hope that I can do better than those who came before me.”

His eyes wander as he explains, looking up at the stars winking into view above them and taking in the glow of the firelight on the branches. It’s more difficult than he anticipated, putting words to the thoughts he’s had about Anders since his death, and old, extinguished shame reignites within him, creeping cold up the back of his neck and wrapping a hand around his throat.

Hawke is staring at him with wide eyes when he drops his gaze to look at her again. “Are you saying that you agree with him?”

At that, he shakes his head. “I don’t think I can say that, exactly. He made good points, but he was more interested in inciting rebellion than in educating and explaining. I read his manifesto--”

“You  _ did _ ?” She gapes at him, her brows almost up to her hairline. 

Sebastian nods, embarrassed at the strength of her reaction. “Yes. He kept leaving it on the pews in the Chantry, and I kept one of them. I read as much of it as I could, at least,” he explains sheepishly, lowering his eyes. “It got less coherent the longer one read it, but he made a case for mage freedom, and against the Circle, that I had never heard before. It made sense, and it was based on the teachings of Andraste.” He pauses, turning to look at Hawke and spreading his hands. “Templars, for example, are never mentioned in the Chant. All my years in the Chantry and I didn’t consider that until I read it where he’d written it down. And then he ruined all of it in a single act of destruction.”

There is frustration in the sigh he heaves when he spits out the last words, and when he looks to Hawke, she is still and quiet as she looks up at him. 

“Anders left Kirkwall without a Chantry when a Chantry was what Kirkwall would have had need of most after the explosion - shelter, guidance, someone to take care of wounded and homeless and needy.” He does his best to be patient and gentle as he explains. This is not Hawke’s fault, no matter what she may believe. “Who was left to care for the people of Kirkwall, the mages? You? Aveline and the guard?” 

He blows out another sigh and looks away into the night, running a hand through his hair. “For all that he was capable of making his case, he failed to consider so many of the consequences of his actions.” Sebastian holds up a hand when he sees Hawke sit up out of the corner of his eye. “I mean more than just Elthina. I mean the whole of the city, and beyond. A city’s Chantry fills a function beyond that of Templars and mages; regular people look to the Chantry daily for assistance with both their souls and their empty cupboards.”

“Did you get a lot of people from Darktown coming to the Chantry for your freshly baked bread, then?” There’s an edge to her voice, and Sebastian shies from it, even as he understands where it comes from.

“Not as many as we’d have liked,” he admits. “We tried to go to them to help, but Chantry Sisters came back injured, robbed, or didn’t come back at all. Leaving a basket by a doorway or a sewer grate isn’t the same.”

“Chantry Sisters came back injured because they went to people with no money and asked them for coin,” she admonishes. Sebastian can do little more than nod at that; he’d heard of such things and refused to believe them until he saw it for himself when he was out with Hawke. When he’d taken his concerns to Elthina, she’d said that everyone had a responsibility to give what they could when they could, and refused to discuss the matter further with him. 

Hawke folds her arms and lets her head fall to the side. “The Chantry wanted people to come to them so that they’d know where it came from, so that the Chantry could get credit for helping.”

“Because I wanted to know that these souls knew where they can turn if they needed more than they’ve been given!” His voice rises into the night, and he huffs out a breath, scrubbing his hand over his face. If he could say that he had any intention when he started this conversation, it was not this. He would gladly return to talk of Bethany’s mistrust in his survival skills, but this is important to both of them, and he wants her to understand. 

“I know you’ve seen the Chantry from its worst side. I was with you when Sister Petrice killed Seamus.” He shakes his head at the memory, seeing Hawke’s brows fall. “I was ashamed to realize what she wanted with that poor Qunari, how she sought to sow discord and misunderstanding within the city. It was unworthy of her, unworthy of those who serve the Maker. How did her actions spread His Light?” He spreads his hands only to let them fall, one coming to rest on her shoulder, the other falling into his lap. “They didn’t, and the world was made darker for it. Anders was faithful, and as a mage, the Chantry in Kirkwall failed him. It failed your sister. It failed so many.” He looks down at his hand where it’s curled into a fist in his lap and shakes his head. 

Hawke sets a hand lightly on his forearm and he starts, lifting his head to look at her. “I don’t know if it helps, but his frustration began long before Kirkwall.” She tucks her chin, looking up at him with heavy brows, concession in her eyes as well as her voice.

Sebastian shakes his head. Anders spoke of his experiences with other Circles, and Sebastian knows that he had a history or escapes and conflict behind him before joining the Grey Wardens, but that does not absolve anyone involved of responsibility. “Kirkwall was where it ended. Every Chantry he passed had the opportunity to help him, and didn’t.”

“You mean help him back into the fold, into thinking that a life in a Circle is a life.” Hawke speaks slowly, choosing her words carefully, and Sebastian understands why. Shame spikes bitter within him to realize that she’s not wrong. Helping Anders in Kirkwall would have meant trying to help him see the good of Circles. “He would never have accepted that, and I think you know that.”

He nods. “I wish I understood what he thought would happen, though. Did he think that Mother Elthina could just agree to abolish the Circle? Would he have been happy with Knight-Captain Cullen in place of Meredith? Or some other Templar, perhaps? Thrask, had he lived?” His voice is rising again, and so he stops, takes a breath and collects his thoughts. “Anders wanted change at a level that none of the people he was talking to would actually be able to carry out, and then he only got angrier when they couldn’t help him. It took a war to even get close to what he wanted, and it’s not over yet.”

“How would you have solved it?” There’s no malice in her question, and her expression is open when he looks at her.

“I don’t know,” he admits with a little shake of his head. “Not a day goes by that I don’t wonder if there wasn’t some other way, something that someone could do to make it better for everyone involved. I have power available to me that I never anticipated, both within the Chantry and on the throne of Starkhaven, but I am only one man, and no mage. These questions are too big for any one person - too big for Anders, too big for me. More than once I’ve wondered what he would’ve done, found myself thinking that it would’ve been good to ask his advice.”

He’s turned from her again, uncomfortable under the intensity of her gaze as he thinks aloud. When no reply comes, he looks at her out of the corner of her eye, afraid that he’s said something wrong, pushed some unknown trigger to send her deep into her own darkness again. Instead he finds her smiling softly at him, her fingers resting on her lower lip. Tears twinkle at the corners of her eyes, threatening to fall.

“I never doubted that you’d be a good Prince,” she says, her voice low and hoarse. She swallows and tries again, and Sebastian does his best to sit quietly and listen, even as her first words surprise him. “I think it takes a truly wise person to look at someone that they disagreed with about so much, who caused them harm, and be able to see the good in their arguments. I’m really impressed, Sebastian, and a little embarrassed to say that I wasn’t sure you had it in you.”

“There was a time when I didn’t,” he replies with a short, dry laugh. “I hated him, and it wasn’t until it was far too late that I really saw what he meant. I’ve tried to make things different in Starkhaven, but then.” He waves a hand vaguely in the air, at a loss for simple terms to describe the chaos of the war and all that followed it. “I hope to make the city somewhere that mages feel truly welcome when all this is over.”

“I look forward to being there to see it.” She grins at him and settles in against his side again. The fire crackles, and for a moment they both sit in silence, resting against each other.

Sebastian runs his hand idly along her arm, marvelling in the sensation of her beside him, that it should be so easy to be with someone this way. It’s more than he dared to pray for, even with someone as patient as Hawke. 

“I’m glad you’re coming back with me.” The words are heavy on his tongue, and a nagging thought at the back of his mind chides him for even saying anything, but the longer he waits, the more he will wonder and worry.

“Where else would I have gone?” She’s amused, and he’s glad to hear it, but it’s not enough, his uncertainty lingering like a small, stubborn wound. He’s memorized her letter, spent nights turning the words over in his mind as he thought of too many answers to that exact question.

He shrugs, her head moving with his shoulder. “Kirkwall. Back to Skyhold to stay with Varric, or to Ferelden. Rivain to find Isabela. I didn’t know.”

Silence rolls in like fog around them, and Sebastian stiffens as he waits for her to say something. Immediately he regrets his words, a foolish impulse to try to gain some sort of reassurance from her, to try to better understand what she was thinking when she left. 

Hawke’s hand is warm on his chest when she pushes herself up to sit more fully. She’s carved in orange light and deep shadows from the dying fire, but there is still enough light to see her eyes as they search his face. 

“You thought I wasn’t going to come back to Starkhaven?” She breathes, pulling her eyebrows together and tilting her head. Her confusion does nothing to make him feel better, instead magnifying his disappointment with himself for broaching the subject at all. 

“You said nothing in your letter about returning, only that you didn’t want me with you and you felt we needed time apart.” He bites at the inside of his lower lip and wills it to stop trembling. “There’s nothing there about coming back.”

“I wasn’t sure if I would.” Her voice is barely audible over the soft crackle of the fire, confession woven into the way her breath moves around the words, the unspoken undercurrent of her admission. “I didn’t want to make a promise I couldn’t be sure that I would keep.”

Her gaze lingers on his face when he casts his eyes down to hide his resentment. He has no right to feel this way, but knowing that does nothing to staunch the way it tightens his chest. He understands too well what she means, but a promise broken because of death is not truly broken, and a promise to return to Starkhaven--to  _ him _ \--would have gone a long way to assuaging the worst of his fears about her feelings for him.

“When I was in the Fade, hunting a nightmare, It spoke to us. This  _ thing  _ played on our worst fears, all of us, and it told me you were going to die.” Her hand covers his where it rests in his lap, and he twists to set them palm to palm. “There was a moment when I thought I wasn’t going to get out, and all I could think about was you, getting back to you and seeing you again. Not a day has passed since I left that I haven’t wanted to go back to Starkhaven, and if you weren’t there, to go to wherever you were.”

She lifts her hand to his jaw, setting her fingertips there to turn his head to look at her. “I had to go. There was no saying no to this, but now it’s done,” she adds, her eyes brightening as she smiles. “I can’t do any more, and all I want is to go home with you and stay there. I love you, and as long as I was able to come back, I was always going to come back to you.”

Sebastian wraps his arms around her and pulls her to him, as close as he can get her, both of them leaning and shifting until she’s curled in his lap, each of them nestled into the crook of the other’s neck. “I’m so sorry you ever thought otherwise,” she whispers, carding her fingers through the hair at the back of his neck. He can only shake his head, eyes squeezed shut as he clings to her, moving between embarrassment at his own need for her reassurance and the overwhelming joy and fulfillment he feels upon receiving it. There is no need for any apology from her; he is the one who was too distracted to see that she needed him and too weak to trust in her to come back. He looked at himself and saw nothing but all the ways he failed her, without taking into consideration the sheer depth and warmth of her heart, her ability to care about so many people so much. It is one of the things about her that he loved first, but he could not imagine it extended to him as well.

“I love you, too,” he murmurs, relaxing without letting go of her. He presses himself against her skin until all else is blocked out, his world made of the softness of her hair on his forehead and under his hands, every breath filled with the scent of her - linen and leather and vanilla. Her touch is a benediction, each brush of her fingers banishing the shadows within him until only light remains, and a song that sings her name. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! It really means a lot to me to see what people think of this story, and while I know I don't always keep up at replies, know that I read every comment and always want to respond. Sometimes I just need to find the words. 
> 
> Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	34. Tantervale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian and Hawke stop for a night in Tantervale on their way home to Starkhaven, giving Sebastian the opportunity to finally ask something of Hawke.

The Imperial Highway seems designed to intimidate all those who would travel on it. Sebastian set such a pace that he failed to stop and consider this on his way to Weisshaupt, but as they make their way back towards Starkhaven and home, his eyes move again and again to the stone archways that loom overhead. Some of them are crumbled, and some portions of the road are not as well-maintained as others, but the magic that was poured into making them ensures that the expansive elevated roadway is serviceable from Minrathous to Nevarra, through Orlais and onward to Orzammar. Even in treacherous and unpopulated areas, the Highway remains, a source of safety for travellers and a necessity for trade and commerce. It carries the same treachery as any major thoroughfare in that it is prowled by bandits and thieves, but the danger from without is significantly lowered by virtue of elevation and some arcane blessing that went into the building of it. Perhaps it is that same blessing that makes the hair on the back of Sebastian’s neck stand up as another arch slips past above them, each side flanked by a guard.

Their journey on the Highway starts in Vol Dorma after a night’s rest. It was the first opportunity either of them had to spend any real time in Tevinter, and it was impossible to not be drawn in by the pageantry of it, modern colors mixed with ancient architecture and an underlying current of pride that seemed to permeate the very air around them. The decadence of the city proved difficult to enjoy for any real length of time, however. Sebastian’s thoughts returned time and again to Fenris and what little he spoke of his life in Tevinter, of how he was treated, how elves were treated and those who did not possess magic. Sebastian took the time to thank every Elf that they encountered, and was sure to tip generously when they were brought food or drink and shown to their room for the evening. Hawke felt much the same about the city, but neither of them could fault the accommodations, and they fell asleep pressed against each other in a sea of soft pillows and thin blankets with music floating up to them through an open window.

The day is bright and sunny when they ride out from Vol Dorma, both of them rested and refreshed but more than ready to leave Tevinter behind them. With Bethany’s runes, they make good time on the Highway, archways blinking past overhead. They maneuver through trade caravans and messengers riding alone, families with wagons, even one memorable troupe of musicians playing as they rode, the sound of flutes and drums following them for miles. 

Sebastian knows little of the magic that went into building the Highway, only noting that he and Hawke are remarkably unimpeded as they clatter along the pale grey stones, coming upon the outskirts of the Silent Plains late in the evening after three days of hard riding. The guards on the Highway still bear Tevinter uniforms, though they have been fewer the farther they’ve traveled from Vol Dorma. Stopping to ask, Sebastian is surprised when the guards recommend they make camp on the edge of the Highway itself, insisting that there is little travel on the Highway so late at night in the area, and that the guards themselves would be awake to stand watch while they slept. Nevertheless, Sebastian and Hawke sleep in turns and set off as soon as there is light on the road again.

The Silent Plains are not so silent as advertised. Strange cries come from the desolation on either side of the Highway, and more than once they’re forced to stop to calm their horses when they shy or turn, refusing to carry on forward without coaxing and reassurance. At one point Hawke walks beside her mount instead of riding it, scratching at the beast’s neck and murmuring encouragement as they make their way past something scorched and still smoking on the stone. The air stinks of burnt hair and flesh mixed with the more familiar scent of a wood fire. The land all around them is grey, and they are both red-eyed and coughing by the time Nevarra appears on the horizon, hazy through the ash and dust carried on the constant crosswind. 

They cross the border into Nevarra late in the day. The Silent Plains seem to watch them as they go, the hair standing up on the back of Sebastian’s neck. He does not turn to look, and they do not stop until they reach an inn. The horses gulp down water as soon as they are led to stalls, and both Sebastian and Hawke shake sand from their clothes and hair before going inside. The proximity to the Marches shows in touches in the decorating, a familiarity that warms him as soon as they step in through the door, with dark wood, brass, and green glass covers for some of the lamps.

Nevarra is not as superficially welcoming as Tevinter, the people less likely to light up at the sight of a heavy coin purse, more interested in practicality than in flaunting wealth and luxury. Sebastian is more than happy to keep a low profile as they spend a day refilling supplies and planning the rest of their journey. 

They turn east and follow the Minanter from Nevarra back to Starkhaven, leaving the Highway and taking to smaller, twisting roads. The Nevarrans’ reverence for death clings to the land around them, dry grasses and bare trees giving way to wide green fields and deep forests as the Free Marches embrace them. Their pace slows as they use the river as a guide, the urgency in Sebastian’s mind soothed by familiar surroundings. They spend days with the blue of the river on one side of them and long expanses of purple grass on the other, changing to neat squares of farmland as they approach villages and towns. Sebastian knows the names of all of them, even those too small to be marked on a map. This was part of his royal training, lessons forced upon him even as his parents insisted that he would never be able to use the knowledge. 

There is one constant on the journey, and that is Hawke’s presence beside him. The initial uncertainty of sharing a bed fades with each night they spend together until he finds himself longing for the end of the day, a quiet meal in her company and an evening in each other’s arms. He doesn’t ask what happened while she worked with the Inquisition, only listens when she chooses to tell him, and the story comes out in pieces: Stroud’s exile, blood rituals in the desert, the siege against an ancient Warden fortress. Neither of them sleep after she tells him about the Fade, about falling and following the Divine through the wasteland, about the Nightmare and the Inquisitor’s choice. There are no words that he can offer her to make her see that her survival is not her fault, not a flaw or a mistake, and so he holds her while she mourns, saying silent prayers to the Maker to thank Him for returning her to him, and to bring Stroud quickly to His side. 

Tantervale is the first real city they’ve seen since leaving Nevarra. They make their way through neatly tended farmland, an overcast sky giving way to the sun just as it begins to set. The farmers take no notice of two travellers, and Sebastian is grateful, but cannot fully ignore the growing concern in his mind. He and Hawke have been anonymous on this journey, with few people asking their names, and no one seeming interested when hearing their answers, but they are close to home now, to places that will recall the events in Kirkwall, and people who will know the name of the reigning Prince of Starkhaven.

“The people of the city take their faith very seriously,” Sebastian explains, nodding towards the slowly growing town on the edge of the river. “As does their Chancellor. Orrick makes me look like…” He squints up at the first winking stars above them as he tries to think of a way to describe it. “A demon, I guess, but I can’t say which. Any of them would be bad enough.”

Hawke sighs but he sees her grinning as she looks away. He’ll gladly play the fool to make her smile. The last vestiges of darkness still hang around her, wisps of shadow that darkened her eyes after she told him of the Fade. They lessen for each day, but Sebastian worries, and it’s good to see her smiling more freely.

“What I’m trying to say,” he continues, chuckling to himself, “is that we’ll have to be careful. Not that you and I are indelicate in any way,” he drawls. When his head falls to the side so that he can look over at her, she’s still smiling at him and shaking her head. “We need to be on our best behavior. Chantry law is all but absolute, and the city guard is obsessed with enforcement, seeing it as a duty not to the city or the Chancellor, but to the Maker himself. City guards walk the streets in armed pairs, which almost no one else does.”

Evidence of this is provided as soon as they walk through the gates of the city. Tantervale is smaller than Starkhaven or Kirkwall, and when they arrive in the evening, the city is all but deserted, and those few groups of people they do see look different, even at a glance. Pairs of men walk together, and one small group of three women, but there are no families or young couples anywhere in sight. Indeed the only couple that Sebastian and Hawke pass are one older pair walking arm in arm together, and all of the people are outnumbered by the guards. Mingled in among the people are Templars dressed in shining armor, as well as City guardsmen with the deep blue heraldry of the city on their uniforms. Sebastian notes with some dismay how people shift when they see the guards approaching; hands that are brushing against each other move apart, eyes are diverted. The guards scan the streets with keen eyes, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords as they walk. Hawke and Sebastian drift apart on some unspoken instinct, Sebastian taking a moment to change sides so that both of their horses are between them. They are so close to Starkhaven; he will not risk some triviality keeping them from coming home. 

It’s a strange thought, to consider the Chantry’s teachings as trivialities, but when presented with a city such as Tantervale, he finds the word appropriate. The city has no brothel, nor does it have an alienage, as elves are simply turned away at the gates. Neither is there a Circle in the city, and Sebastian is reminded of the boastful Sister who once reassured him that there were no mages in Starkhaven. Would Chancellor Orrick say the same of Tantervale, if asked? Sebastian considers himself a pious man, but the enforcement here takes away freedom. The Maker should be worshipped through love, and also through the choice to do so. Fear and force rarely lead to real devotion, and as he looks at the faces of the guards and those they are guarding, he sees little joy.

The streets of the city are straight and meet at perfect angles at every corner as if the entire sprawl of it was planned before a single brick was laid. The land the city is built on is flat, which means that it is entirely possible that that’s the truth. Cobblestone streets are turned to narrow canyons with wood and stone walls stretching up above them on either side. The buildings are taller than those in Starkhaven, with stone foundations and upper floors of wood, bleached pale by time or the sun, or painted white and accented with darker planks set in crisscrossing patterns under the windows. The roofs slope sharply, giving Tantervale a jagged silhouette against the last bruised light of the day above them.

The tavern sits on one side of Tantervale’s main square. With orange light spilling from the windows and laughter audible from the stable outside, it is so warm and welcoming as to give the impression that it doesn’t know which city it’s a part of. It’s also bustling when Hawke steps past Sebastian to go inside, every table filled with people laughing and talking, drinking out of sturdy wooden tankards or delicate stemmed glasses. Most of the tables are separated into men or women, but at some of the smaller ones there are couples sitting together, enjoying a quiet meal or a drink, and Sebastian relaxes by some small degree. 

He moves to the corner of the bar facing the door. A large leatherbound book lies open, the top corner of the pages warped by a ring left when someone was careless with a tankard in the past. There is a large brass bell hanging above the counter, but he sees Hawke looking at it and they exchange a glance, preferring to wait rather than attract that sort of attention. He catches the barkeep’s eye a moment later and nods, bringing the man bustling over to them, wiping his hands on a towel hanging from his belt.

“Good evening, and welcome to the Sword and Crown. Will you be needing a room for the night?”

“Aye,” Sebastian replies. He glances over his shoulder and Hawke steps to stand at his elbow, smiling shyly at the barkeep. “My wife and I are passing through. Is there a room available? You appear to have plenty of customers.” The lie slips too easily off his tongue, but if there is anywhere it will be needed, it’s here. 

The barkeep stabs the book with a stubby finger and talks while he drags his gaze down the list written in a barely legible script. “Oh, most of these folks live here in town, but we’re proud to say we’ve become something of a gathering place for the people of Tantervale. We serve only fresh juices and water that’s been steeped with herbs picked in their prime.”

“No alcohol?” Hawke blurts out. She sounds so surprised that Sebastian and the barkeep stop to glance at her, but she shakes her head and lowers her eyes, not replying to either of their looks.

“No,” the barkeep says. “No alcohol at all. Too much risk of sinning with that stuff about.” His voice is filled with sincerity, and he nods towards the guards sitting on stools at the far corner of the bar. “Best to just not have it available. It’s not as if we need it to enjoy ourselves,” he adds, gesturing broadly to the closest tables.

Sebastian hums in agreement, giving the man a knowing nod. He doesn’t miss drinking, but this is one more choice that speaks to the lack of freedom people seem willing to accept in order to better serve the Maker. 

“Ah, here we are. One room, two beds for you.” He plucks a key from a small cabinet behind the bar and hands it to Sebastian. “I’ll just need your names for the register.”

Sebastian’s mind stutters to a halt. He did consider that they might ask for such a thing but failed to prepare for the eventuality, only hoping dearly to avoid attracting the attention of the Chancellor so that he and Hawke can get out of the city swiftly. They are so close to home, and an unplanned diplomatic visit could keep them here for up to a week, if not more.

“Amell.” Her voice cuts through the thoughts shouting in his mind, and Sebastian turns to look at her, schooling his expression so that his surprise isn’t obvious to the barkeep. “I’m Isabela Amell and this is my husband, Malcolm.”

The barkeep’s eyes slide from Hawke to Sebastian, who does his best to smile and nod confidently. He searches inside himself for the resilience he had on the day they’d gone to the Keep in Starkhaven, anything to douse the spark of suspicion he sees rising in the man across from him. It is a weak lie and feels painfully obvious, as if he is standing in the room naked and trying to pretend he’s fully clothed.

“Right, then.” The barkeep looks not entirely convinced, but perhaps enough to go along with the names that Hawke offered. Sebastian can’t imagine that he hasn’t been faced with things like this before, forced to choose between good coin and obeying Chantry law, and he’s relieved to see that coin will prevail for the night.

“You really need names for those that don’t live in the city?” Hawke’s head falls to the side in a truly impressive display of feigned innocence. “When I was in Ferelden, you only needed to be able to pay.”

The barkeep nods as he writes. “Dog lords do things their way, we do things our way. I need to be able to show the Chancellor’s guards that we’ve been keeping things right with the Maker here. Can’t have anything untowards going on in our rooms.” He glances up from the book. “But I don’t see anything like that happening here.”

Sebastian nods curtly. Hawke shifts behind him, and he would rather just avoid confrontation and leave as soon as possible. “Now, if there’s nothing else, we’d also like a table so that we can have something to eat. We’ve been on the road all day.”

“Sit wherever you’d like, someone will be with you shortly.” The barkeep’s smile is forced and he spares little more than a glance for Hawke before returning to his work. Sebastian thanks him quickly and turns away, setting a hand at the small of Hawke’s back to guide her to an empty table.

The tavern could be any other tavern in any number of cities and villages in the Marches. The tables are fashioned from dark, heavy wood that’s been smoothed to the point of polished through years of wiping up spills, setting down plates, and scraping tankards across the surface. The chairs and benches are built to match, though here they have cushions for comfort, coarse woven fabric in a green and blue plaid stuffed with scraps of cloth and down. The rounded corners of the tables, as well as the railing by the bar and the legs of the high, wobbly stools that stand in front of it, are all wrapped in hammered copper that glows warmly in the light from the fireplace. Aged portraits of unknown men--likely the building’s former proprietors--hang on the walls, and a large dog too grey and shaggy to be a Mabari sleeps lightly in front of the fire, opening one eye when Sebastian and Hawke settle in to a table close by.

“Isabela and Malcolm?” Sebastian whispers as he pushes in Hawke’s chair, then moves around the table to his own.

“I panicked,” she replies in an equally hushed tone, reaching out to pull the candle holder on the table closer to her. It’s a squat, simple thing made of solid green glass, but round enough for her to spin between her hands, the flame twisting and flickering as she watches it.

Sebastian stretches across the table and sets one hand on top of hers to still the candle. He doesn’t want to draw the attention of the two city guards that are standing at the far end of the bar watching the crowd, but he also wants her attention.

“At least your panicking came up with something,” he replies, chuckling. Her skin is soft under his fingertips where they rest on the back of her hand, and he drags them down to her knuckles and up again. “I’m flattered--no, honored by your choice of name for me.”

He doesn’t want to say too much where there’s a risk they could be overheard, but her giving him her father’s name as cover for the barkeep left him speechless for entirely different reasons than panic.

Hawke shrugs with one shoulder. “He’d have liked you,” she explains. “He’d have liked that stunt with the arrow and the Chanter’s board.” Her gaze is turned inward when she smiles, almost to herself. After a moment her expression darkens, brows pulled down. “I hope Isabela isn’t wanted for anything this far inland, though.”

Sebastian doesn’t try to contain the laugh that bubbles up inside him at the remark, laughing harder still when Hawke grins at him from across the table. He glances around, but they seem to blend in with the crowd, no one looking or whispering about the pair of them together.

Dinner is a simple, hearty meal of meat, potatoes, vegetables, and a savory sauce. Hawke is less than impressed with the drink, but Sebastian enjoys it, trying three different types of herb-steeped water. It’s cool and refreshing, and he notes that he’ll have to reach out to the Chancellor in a more official capacity in the future so that he can return. 

They pay and make their way up the stairs, Sebastian still holding both of the keys. The door sticks when he unlocks it, and he has to push with his shoulder to force it open. Hawke follows him in and sets her pack down at the foot of one of the beds and sets her hands on her hips. “And here I’d just gotten used to the idea of us sharing,” she sighs.

“Well, hopefully the guard aren’t about to come bursting in the door in the middle of the night,” he replies, setting his bag down on the other bed.

The room is more spacious than he expected, if sparsely decorated. Simple cloth curtains frame the window on the far fall. There is a small table under the window, and low, narrow beds on either side of it. There is no rug on the dusty wooden floor, and the fireplace looks like it hasn’t been used in a while, though a stack of logs sits beside it. A painting of Andraste hangs above the fireplace, and several half-used candles are lined up along the mantle.

“I suppose they don’t get many people staying the night here,” Hawke muses. She’s already turned to her bag, pulling out a small wooden box. “Still, you’d think they could’ve sent someone up to fluff the pillows before we got here. Or is there nothing about that in the Chant?”

She crouches in front of the fireplace, striking a match and coaxing what little kindling is left into something capable of consuming a log. The fireplace sparks and crackles as she sets wood into it then steps back to look at her handiwork. 

Sebastian’s eyes are drawn to the painting, then down to Hawke. Both are bathed in firelight, one holding a sermon while the other stares down into the flames. Both are strong and beautiful, leaders that inspire people with their words and their hearts, that take action to ease suffering and would sacrifice themselves for those they care about. He loves both of them, though not the same way. 

After a moment Hawke turns away, returning to her bag without a word, and Sebastian takes the opportunity to look away as well. He pulls at the ties of his own bag beside him on the bed, silently cursing his trembling fingers. This wasn’t at all how he’d planned this, but when the Maker presents such a perfect moment for him to surprise Hawke, Sebastian is not one to ignore it.

His time runs out before he can act, however, Hawke stripping off her outer layers and dropping them by her bag until she’s dressed for bed. She smiles at him as she settles at the foot of the bed opposite, sweeping her braid over her shoulder to start to work at the leather knot tied at the bottom. 

“Could I? Let me help,” he offers. He pulls his bag down from his bed to rest next to hers as he moves to sit behind her, color and heat flaring on his skin as she turns her head to watch him. He feels keenly observed, as if she can read his every thought, as if he’s wearing his intentions like some brightly-colored flag.

If she has some idea what he’s planning, though, she says nothing, instead settling on the bed in front of him, hands resting in her lap where she’s folded her legs. He brings the braid back over her shoulder, his fingers lingering on the soft skin of her neck, cherishing the way that she leans into the touch. 

“I’ve never done this before,” Sebastian cautions her, only for her to turn and look back at him over her shoulder with raised eyebrows. “I mean, I tried at Weisshaupt, but that didn’t go well as I recall.”

She chuckles, tilting her head from side to side in something not quite a nod, but not a denial of his claim either. “I’m not worried, and you shouldn’t be either. You can’t do it wrong, I promise.”

He takes her at her word, even if his fingers tremble as he pulls at the knotted strip of leather tied at the end of her braid. It loosens enough for him to unwrap it, and even as he does, he sees how the braid starts to soften and threaten to fall apart at the bottom. This much is familiar, though her hair is softer now than it was when he’d tried to do this previously. 

Setting the tie aside, he pauses, unsure how to proceed. The last time he did this, she’d gotten up before he could do more than loosen the band. The braid is not the most intricate he’s seen her wear, but instead rather simple and wide, split into four parts by his counting. The end hangs loose and wavy, and when he picks the braid up at the base of her neck and runs his hand down the back of it, it starts to fall apart further in soft waves.

“Comb your fingers through it to start,” she suggests. “If there’s anyone who knows how to be gentle, Sebastian, it’s you. You won’t hurt me.”

He wants to believe her reassurance, wants her confidence in him to ring true, and so he is as careful as possible. Starting at the bottom, he draws his fingers through in slow strokes, marvelling at how the plait turns into one solid fall of hair as he works. The scent of vanilla and some warm spice blooms in the air between them, an oil or perfume that Sebastian recalls Hawke getting as a gift from Isabela. Her hair is impossibly soft, gliding through his hands with no effort even after their day on the road, and he finds himself continuing to run his fingers through it, from her scalp down her neck and shoulders and along her back, a touch that is not touch. 

A slender silver comb appears over her shoulder, and he takes it without a word, instead letting his fingers brush over hers as he accepts the offer. He uses this instead, gathering her hair in one hand and holding the comb in the other, and he works out all the small knots that his earlier attention seem to have created. She trusts him to be gentle, and so gentle he tries to be, not wanting to drag the comb harshly over her scalp. He brushes her hair back first with his fingers, tracing her hairline and the shell of her ear, the side of her neck and the curve of her shoulder where the collar of her tunic has fallen away to reveal soft, pale skin. The chain of her emerald amulet glows orange in the firelight, and he traces one finger along it, smiling to himself when she shivers at the ticklish touch.

He works with his hands as well as the comb she gave him, dragging his fingers over her scalp and letting her hair slide through his hands with soft motions. He knows so well how it feels when she cards her fingers through his hair, every touch sending light and energy through him until he is filled with it, and he wants to give her that pleasure as well, but he also recalls how Bethany spoke of her sister and the way that she would relax when Bethany played with her hair. He sees that here, Hawke’s shoulders slumping and her head rolling forward as he indulges in caresses of her neck and hairline. She hitches, making a soft, eager sound when he runs a finger from the back of her ear to her jaw, and it sends a thrill through him.

“I was thinking,” he starts, doing his best to keep his tone light, as if the coming question is something spontaneous and not a thought that’s kept him awake nights on end since Hawke left for Skyhold. “If we’re pretending to be married for the night--” He pauses to draw a breath to calm the nerves in his voice and loosen the grip that fear is taking on his throat. “What would you say to making that a reality?”

He leans down to the side of the bed as he asks, rummaging in his bag to retrieve the box he’d moved to the top earlier. Hawke is completely still in front of him, her arms hanging slack at her sides. She takes one breath, then another as if to rouse herself, and it takes her two tries to answer him. “Sebastian, what?”

“I wanted you to have this.” He leans forward so that his mouth is by her ear, just close enough for his breath to move over his when he speaks. She shivers at the sensation and he smiles, looping his arm around her other side to set the box in her hands. “I’ve wanted to give it to you for a while now, but there hasn’t been a good moment.” His eyes move from her face to the box and back, and again. He wants to watch her reaction, but to look at her for too long would take the breath from him, and he needs to be able to talk. “Then the Conclave happened, and then--”

“And then I left,” she fills in, soft and sad.

Silence tries to wedge itself in between them, but Hawke lifts her head and turns to look at him with an apology in her eyes, and Sebastian does what he can to show her with his gaze that there is nothing to apologize for. He understands, as much as he thinks he’ll ever be able to. Even he cannot stop Hawke from being Hawke, and her need to help others when it’s asked of her is one of the things that he finds most admirable. 

“What is it?” Her eyes dart down to the box, then back up to him.

He nods towards it with a gentle smile, knuckles clenched white where she can’t see to keep his hands from trembling. “Open it and see,” he offers, waiting for her to follow his instructions.

The box is covered in plush velvet in a red so deep it looks almost black in the firelight. Hawke flips open the gilded clasps on the front and tilts the lid up. Sebastian doesn’t need to look to know what it is she sees. 

On a bed of creamy silk rests a locket in the shape of a circle about the size of a sovereign. It’s made of gold that blushes pink, and the swirling forms of the Starkhaven heraldry have been finely etched into the metal, blackened to match the flag. The goblet in the center is set with tiny jewels, each of them faceted so that they twinkle, but small enough to allow for the shape to be made.

Sebastian waits in silence while she examines the gift. Her eyes widen when she sees the locket, and for a moment she is motionless as she takes in the details of it. He can follow her eyes in the firelight as her gaze follows the fish around the outside edge and takes in the sparkling goblet in the center. She lifts the locket itself to hold it closer, letting the delicate chain hang down as she lowers the box onto the bed beside her. Sebastian plucks the empty box to return it to his bag, rushing to turn back to continue seeing her reaction. Hope and fear chase each other through his veins as he sways between certainty that she will say yes, and equal confidence that she will turn him down and refuse his hand. No matter what she answers, he wants her to have this gift.

“This is beautiful,” she breathes. “I remember when I gave this to you. The chain was missing. I found it in the pocket of one of the first Flint men I killed.” Her voice snags on the last word and she glances up to look at him, then back down to the locket in her hand. “You thanked me and pocketed it without even looking at it.”

“I didn’t need to look at it to know what it was,” he explains. “I’d have known it anywhere; I saw it every day for eighteen years. It was my mother’s.”

Hawke breathes out a soft “oh” as she regards the locket in light of this revelation.

“My father had it made for her as a betrothal gift, a way to officially welcome her as a part of Starkhaven. I thought perhaps it could serve the same purpose for you.”

“I’ve lived in the city for over a year now, Sebastian.” She smiles and rolls her eyes affectionately, dry humor in her voice. “I think I’m a part of whether it wants me to be or not.”

He understands her meaning, but Sebastian will not give the city a choice in this. In many things, he will listen to the will of the people, but he would rule over an empty city before he would send Hawke away. 

“No, I meant--” He sighs and pushes a hand back through his hair. “I meant a betrothal gift, Hawke. Apadiel.”

Her head shoots up, the locket nearly slipping from her hands. Sebastian reaches out to cover her hand with his own, keeping the locket in her grasp. 

“I meant to ask that first night in Weisshaupt,” he explains, “and I couldn’t find the words, but I want to now. I’ve wanted to every day since then. I love you so much. I’ve never known a woman like you, never imagined that such a person could come into my life and change it so completely, change me so completely. I was lost when you left, and am a better man when you are by my side. Will you marry me, Apadiel?”

Her eyes light up in the soft glow of the fire, but it’s only momentary, her expression falling as quickly as it rose. “What about your vows? You can’t take another bride.”

Sebastian is already shaking his head gently as she asks. He is well aware of the limits set upon him by the Chantry’s traditional vows for a Brother, but he is prepared, and finds himself flattered that she thinks to ask. “The Revered Mother was willing to set them aside so that I could have an heir, and I told you before that the promise I made to Andraste was personal, different from simply agreeing to what the Chantry asked of me. I will make sure they will allow this, and I am certain in my heart that this is the right choice.”

The smile that blossoms on her face this time comes slowly, growing into something warm and bright and joyful as she listens, with tears sparkling at the corners of her eyes. “Then yes, of course, Sebastian. Of course I will.” She looks down at the locket, then holds it out towards him with trembling hands. “Would you?”

“It would be my honor.”

She tries to sit still while he opens the clasp, but it’s as if the nervous energy he felt before he asked the question moved to her when she gave her answer. She looks to him, to the locket, folds and refolds her hands in her lap and settles her shoulders again and again. He lifts the chain, looping it around her slender neck to lock the clasp behind her, then gently pulls her hair out until the chain rests against her skin. The locket doesn’t fall as far as her amulet, settling just below her collarbone. He can only just see the jewels catch the light when he leans in to kiss her cheek, watching as her hand goes to the locket. 

“I love you, Hawke.” The rest of his words are lost to him when she turns on the bed and closes the distance between them, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. He pulls her in, slipping his arms around her waist and burying his nose on the crook of her neck. He can’t tell if she’s trembling because she’s laughing or crying, but neither can he be sure about himself. Elation courses through him so that his muscles are weak and disobedient, responding only to the command that he hold her tightly. 

“I promise I’ll spend my days making sure you never again doubt how loved you are. Never,” he whispers. 

Her breath is warm on his cheek when she moves back enough to be able to look him in the eye. Her cheeks are streaked with tears and her grin is wide and shaky. One arm rests on his shoulder where the box hangs from her hand, and she brings her other hand up to his jaw, leaning it to kiss him. She closes her eyes but Sebastian doesn’t, wanting to watch her, to take in every second of this moment with her; the way her brow furrows and relaxes, the way she smiles against his mouth, and the little sigh she gives when he licks at her lower lip. She tastes like mint, sharp and sweet but still warm when he deepens the kiss. Her hand moves along his jaw to his neck, combing through the hair at his nape, and he brings one arm up along her back as if to pull her even closer, to have even more contact between them. He takes in her eyelashes and the little lines that form at the corners of her eyes when she tilts her head, the mischief in her grin when she catches her lip between her teeth, and the simple, soft bliss that she remains when he breaks the kiss.

“I love you,” he murmurs. His lips brush against her own and it sends sparks through him. “I love you so much.” For every time he says it, it’s returned, warm waves that wash over both of them as Sebastian leans back to ease them down onto the bed together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! It really means a lot to me to see what people think of this story, and while I know I don't always keep up at replies, know that I read every comment and always want to respond. Sometimes I just need to find the words. 
> 
> Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	35. Home Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After too much time away and too much time apart, Hawke and Sebastian return to Starkhaven.

They left Tantervale under the apathetic gaze of dark, water-logged clouds that kept the sun out of sight for the better part of the morning before opening at mid-day, drenching them and spooking the horses with thunderclaps and crackling lightning. The storm abated to a more docile, steady rainfall the next day, and so they abandoned the leisurely pace following the river, instead taking the straightest course to Starkhaven. Heavy drops fall hard against the hood of Sebastian’s already sodden cloak, rolling down his hood to sneak inside his clothing as they make their way over the bridge to the city’s gate. The relief he felt upon seeing the city on the horizon was dull and distant; there was no real fear of some terrible fate befalling Starkhaven during his absence. Now, however, anticipation crawls through him so that he finds it difficult to sit still in the saddle as they plod across the bridge. Home is so close, and this time he can move through the city in total freedom.

Hawke rides beside him, hidden but for her nose that peeks out past the edge of her hood. Her face is tipped down to protect against the rain, but he can also see her hand moving under the neck of her cloak. He smiles to himself as he looks away towards the gate. She’s barely been able to leave the locket alone since he gave it to her, and while it’s a shame that they didn’t have more sunshine so that she could see how the jewels catch the morning light, he finds comfort in knowing that she will have plenty of opportunities with it in the future. Hawke can wear it every day for the rest of her life if she wants to; it’s hers now, a symbol of a promise for her to carry with her.

One of the wheels on the wagon in front of them screams in protest as it begins to roll away under the wide archway into the city, and Sebastian urges his horse forward, glad for a moment’s reprieve from the rain. He pushes back his hood and shakes wet hair off his forehead as he prepares to greet the guards when a voice calls out from the far side of the city wall.

“There’s no need for inspections, messeres. I can lead these two lost souls home from here.”

A dappled grey horse steps forward from its hiding place just past the edge of the archway, looking put out at having been forced to wait in the rain. The horse wears the livery of the City Guard, and while the rider is obscured behind his own heavy cloak, his voice is unmistakable. 

“Fenris.” Sebastian smiles as he calls out to him, a weight lifting from his shoulders to see a familiar face. He flicks the reins to coax his horse forward again, fighting to push his cloak out of the way to raise an arm in greeting. Beside him, Hawke grins, glancing at him and then back to where Fenris’ horse is seeking out cover from the deluge.

“There is no need, Your Highness.” Fenris says, waving a hand to Sebastian’s attempts to greet him. “From the looks of you both, I think it’s best we wait with such things until we get to the Keep.”

Sebastian nods, waiting only long enough for Fenris to turn his horse and start off up the road ahead of them. Hawke moves to his left and Sebastian to his right; the street is not quite broad enough for the three of them to all ride alongside each other, so Fenris stays a bit ahead, and together they form a wedge that pushes through everything in their path to the Keep.

There is little traffic, few people interested in lingering outdoors in the weather, but some intrepid merchants pause and look, watching the trio pass with curiosity, or happiness when they catch a glimpse of the Prince within his cloak. He nods and smiles to those whose eyes he catches, uplifted time after time to see the gesture returned. It is a wet and sparse welcome, far from the crowds of his coronation, but he is grateful nonetheless. 

The horses pick their way up the stairs, fanning out naturally when they come to the expanse of the square in front of the Keep. It’s completely deserted save for the guards with the unfortunate duty of watching through the rain. Hawke clicks her tongue and her horse sets off at a trot, leaving Fenris and Sebastian to catch up to her as she makes her way to the door, puddles scattering into droplets as she rides through them.

Hawke pulls up at the bottom of the Keep’s steps and Sebastian is pleased to see servants appear when the door opens, hurrying out to take the reins and lead her horse, as well as his and Fenris’, off to the stables for food, water, and a proper toweling off.

One of the servants is nearly knocked off her feet, however, as a thick head and muscular shoulders force their way past her through the door opening. Canut explodes out from the door, jumping to miss all the stairs and sliding across the wet stones when he lands, untroubled by the fall. He races in a wide circle around the horses, making tighter but not less enthusiastic laps, barking and whining impatiently until Hawke is on the ground. She barely has a moment to hand the horse off before the Mabari leaps at her, hindquarters wiggling and paws flailing as he tries to fit into Hawke’s arms and cover her face in delighted licks all at once.

Hawke goes down to one knee and Sebastian sees her bracing to keep from being bowled over, her head turning from side to side to keep from being hit by Canut’s snout and keep his tongue out of her mouth and eyes as best she can. He is undeterred, dancing on his back legs and pushing his head up under her chin, his breath coming in plumes of white steam where he pants happily, tongue lolling out one side of his jaws.

Fenris shakes his head, chuckling as he comes to stand beside Sebastian. He laughs as well, unable to fault Canut for his unbridled joy. There was a part of Sebastian that reacted in a similar way when he first saw Hawke again at Weisshaupt, though he managed to keep himself from headbutting her chin or licking her cheek.

“Oh, would you get inside, you silly beast! She’s coming in too, and you can have all the kisses you like once you’re warm and dry.”

Canut looks away towards the sound of the voice and settles down onto all fours, his back end continuing to wiggle as he glances up at Hawke, then to the door again.

“Don’t promise him that, Bethany!” Hawke calls out, exasperated but grinning. “I’m the one who’s going to have to make good on that.”

Bethany is leaning out of the door, only her head and shoulder visible where she’s pulled it closed against the rain. “You ran off in the middle of the night and left him,” she replies, nodding towards Canut as they make their way up the stairs. “I’ve had to deal with him since then. He’s been more put out than Mother was when we were living with Uncle Gamlen. Pathetic, he is.”

She disappears into the Keep as the door swings open. Canut goes in first, and Sebastian makes to follow him until Hawke holds up a hand. 

“Not that we’ll be less wet for it, but this way we won’t all smell like dog,” she explains over her shoulder, and sure enough Sebastian sees Canut stop in the entryway and shake, water flying off his short, coarse fur in every direction, including all over Bethany.

Satisfied, Canut trots onward. Sebastian follows Hawke inside. The sight of the doorway, the warm air that greets them, even the smell of it lifts his spirits, to say nothing of the tangible weight that falls from his shoulders when he unfastens the cloak and hangs it on a hook. It will need to be spread out by a fire to dry properly, but this will do for now. There are more important things to tend to in the time being.

A rush of motion catches his attention, and he turns to see the sisters reunited, Hawke swaying lightly from the impact of Bethany running to hug her. They are wrapped around each other, Bethany’s arms tight around Hawke’s shoulders, only dark hair visible where she’s nestled in the crook of Hawke’s neck. What Bethany says is too soft for him to hear, and Hawke’s apologies are only just audible, a constant flow of reassurances, concessions and promises. Canut circles them, whining and pushing at Hawke’s legs with his snout, but she makes no move to let her sister go.

On his way to Weisshaupt, it was easy--perhaps too easy--for Sebastian to forget that he was not the only one Hawke left behind in Starkhaven. The pang of shame within him when he is reminded of his own selfish need for her is lessened as he watches their reunion. He might have been the one who left to find her, but he did not bring her back to Starkhaven for his sake alone, and he is comforted to see the sisters reunited, to see these people he loves happy together.

“Oh! Hawke! Sebastian!” Hawke’s gaze lifts, and Sebastian follows to where Merrill is hurrying down the stairs towards them. Maresa and Neriah trail after her but stop at the top of the staircase, though Maresa meets his eyes and smiles, giving a quiet nod.

Bethany lets go of Hawke only enough to fold Merrill into the embrace. Her voice is a muffled but constant stream of indistinguishable words, and it’s not long before both the Hawke sisters are laughing, the circle of all their arms loosening as they begin to fall into conversation. Bethany kisses her sister on the cheek after a moment, then turns away, her hand lingering on Hawke’s arm for as long as possible when she moves towards Sebastian.

“I’m so glad to see you. I’m so glad--” Tears well up in her eyes even as she shakes her head to try to dispel them. He starts to reply, but the words fall away when she pops up onto her toes and wraps her arms around him.

“Thank you for bringing her home safe,” she whispers. “Thank you for coming back, for finding her and taking care of her, and both of you, and--”

Sebastian hushes her softly, one arm around her waist and the other at the back of her neck. She’s trembling, and his heart aches for her. He recalls all too well how it felt to be left behind, and while he would not wish that pain and uncertainty on anyone, he would also not change his decision to go to Weisshaupt alone. “It’s all right. We’re home now,” he murmurs. For him, there is no greater reassurance, and he hopes it will help her as well. She pulls back, wiping at her eyes and shaking her head again. 

“We got a couple letters from Varric, but he didn’t have any news,” she tells him, sighing and waving her hand dismissively. “He only knew that Hawke was headed that way. I told him you’d left, but, well, he didn’t say anything about that.”

In a way, that’s the best sort of reply Sebastian could ask for, coming from Varric: a sort of silent acceptance that Sebastian followed his instructions, and he nods as he listens, smiling at Bethany until she smiles back, the shadows passing from her face until only her sunshine remains.

Maresa and Neriah descend the stairs slowly, taking in the scene with wide, uncertain eyes. Sebastian glances past Bethany at them, and Bethany follows when his gaze moves. She nods and steps away from him, going back to Hawke where she’s still standing with Merrill, now joined by Fenris, one hand resting on Canut’s head to scratch him idly as she listens to them.

“You look well,” Maresa offers, giving him a cursory glance as she comes to stand beside him. There’s hesitation in her voice, and Sebastian looks back at her with one raised eyebrow, certain that there is something more underneath her words. At the very least, he doubts he could agree with her. He is exhausted and sore from the road, cold, damp, muddy, and hungry. He is also happier than he’s been in years, and hopes that perhaps that is what she sees.

Neriah looks him over with the same calculating gaze as her mother. “I would’ve said he looks tired and half-drowned, but I suppose ‘well’ works, too.” She grins when she says it, and Sebastian smiles as well, glad to hear the truth of it, but still appreciating Maresa’s warmth and attempt at kindness.

A thought troubled him since not long after he set off, and he turns to face the two of him, combing his hair back from his forehead. “I apologize for not telling you when I left,” he starts, but even as he begins to explain, Maresa shakes her head, holding up a hand to stop him. 

“You are the Prince of the city, and a free man. You don’t owe us explanations or apologies for acting as such, Sebastian.” Maresa’s eyes cut to the side where everyone else is gathered. “Bethany and Merrill told us what happened, and of course you had no choice but to go.” She sets a hand on his arm as her head falls a little to the side. “I’m--” She glances back over her shoulder. “ _ We’re  _ very glad to see you both home safe again. And, if I may say: That locket suits her.”

He follows her eyes to look at where Hawke still stands among the others. As she talks with Fenris and Merrill, she plays with the locket, idly running her thumb over the jeweled design on the front and turning it in her fingers. Maresa is right, but it has nothing to do with the color of the metal or the length of the chain. There is no one else that he would want to see bearing the locket, no one else to whom he would make the promise that goes with it.

A door swings open on the far side of the room and Seneschal Granger strides in carrying an armful of papers. The others go quiet at his entrance, and Granger pauses, blinking owlishly and taking in each of their faces in turn. His expression opens when he sees Hawke, eyes widening and mouth only just opening as he turns and his gaze finally comes to rest on Sebastian.

“It’s good to see you, Seneschal. I’m glad to see the city still stands.” Sebastian nods to Maresa before stepping away from her towards Granger, holding out his hand. He schools his expression, hoping to keep his own surprise from showing how glad he really is to see his Seneschal. He didn’t doubt for a moment that Starkhaven would be in capable hands in his absence, but he is still relieved to see that Granger looks well. He knows firsthand the pressure that comes with caring for an entire city.

“Your Highness!” Granger surges forward only to stop again, frowning as he looks down at the papers in his arms. He shifts them as best he can to free one hand, then extends it to Sebastian with a sheepish grin. “Captain Fenris informed me that you’d be returning to the city today, but I thought it would be closer to nightfall. I’m-- I-- Welcome back, ser!”

He takes Sebastian’s outstretched arm, gripping his forearm and stepping in to accept the greeting. Sebastian claps him on the shoulder, nodding and laughing a little when Granger gestures helplessly, his other hand occupied with papers.

Sebastian gives him a final shake, then lets go and steps away, moving to stand beside Hawke. Warmth spreads up his arm when her hand finds his, and the grin that comes to him is automatic, though he wouldn’t think to stop it even if he could. 

“Granger, I know I’ve asked a lot of you with this, and while I don’t have to look to know that you’ve done an excellent job, I do have one more favor to ask.” His heart flutters in his chest, and he swallows as he tries to find the words, so simple and yet difficult to say now that it comes to it. He does what he can to cover his hesitation, lifting their joined hands to kiss Hawke’s knuckles then smiling down at her before looking to Granger again. “We need to plan a wedding. A royal wedding.”

The very air in the room freezes, discussion stopping as all eyes turn to look at them. Sebastian glances down to where Hawke is looking up at him, biting down on her smile but failing to contain it. The silence stretches a beat, then two, before the room explodes with voices and movement. Bethany shrieks and launches herself at both of them at once, throwing her arms around their necks.

“This is wonderful! Maker, this is-- Oh, Puddle, you’re gonna be a beautiful bride!” She kisses each of them on the cheek before pulling away, and Sebastian watches as her eyes move over Hawke, a spark in her eyes already, no doubt imagining gowns and hairstyles and all the things involved in being a bride. Her eyes flit to Sebastian, and she grins at him, tears shimmering along her lower lashes. “And you’re going to be a wonderful brother-in-law.”

Merrill appears over Bethany’s shoulder, grinning and looking at them with shining eyes. “Oh, Creators, look at you two! Congratulations!”

Questions come from every direction, with Neriah bouncing on the balls of her feet asking for details of the engagement, Fenris pondering protection around the ceremony, and Bethany already offering suggestions for Hawke’s appearance on the day. Maresa moves to Merrill’s side and links their arms together, Merrill’s head resting on her shoulder. Canut bounds around them all, hopping and barking, swept up in all the excitement. 

A sharp draw of breath like a sob cuts through the din and Sebastian turns to look. Granger’s papers lie spilled on the floor, his hands clasped before him as he stares at the group. His mustache twitches, and he looks back at Sebastian with furrowed brows and watery eyes. 

“We will give you the most splendid wedding the Free Marches has ever known, Your Highness!” His nodding turns more and more emphatic, and Sebastian can’t recall ever seeing him speak with so much conviction before. “Leave everything to me.” 

Granger shifts his weight, his grin now fully visible under his mustache. Sebastian offers him a soft smile and a gentle incline of his head, and that’s all that’s needed to set him in motion. The door swings on its hinges as Granger disappears into the Keep, and there is another moment of silence as everyone watches him go.

“I had no idea he could do that,” Merrill breathes, wonder in her eyes as she glances at the rest of the group. “I just thought he was one of those people who was always angry.”

It breaks the awkward silence, all of them chuckling and sighing as they look around at each other. Maresa watches her with a warm, diffuse smile for a moment. “It seems we all have a lot of questions and things to discuss. What do you say we let these two put on some dry clothes, and we can all sit down to some tea and real conversation somewhere other than the entryway?”

Everyone turns to look at the two of them expectantly. Hawke glances at Sebastian, then shrugs. “I think it sounds like a brilliant idea. I’m cold and tired and filthy, so there is a risk that I could fall asleep in my room, but if I can manage to change and stay awake, I think it sounds lovely.” She looks down and swallows, squeezing Sebastian’s hand. “I’ve missed you all terribly, and I look forward to spending time with you again.”

Sebastian nods, but it still takes a moment for anyone to move. Merrill and Maresa make their way to the kitchen. Neriah rushes forward and wraps her arms around Sebastian’s waist. He sways on the spot, so startled that he only manages to set a hand on her back before she moves away again.

“This came for you while you were away,” she mumbles, pressing a folded letter into his hand before hurrying off after her mother.

Fenris settles his weight, seeming content to stand in the entryway for the time being. Bethany follows alongside Sebastian and Hawke up the stairs, Canut trailing behind them, sniffing at Hawke’s feet as they go. Bethany breaks off to head to Hawke’s room at the top of the stairs, glancing over her shoulder and snapping her fingers to get Canut to follow.

Sebastian brings his hand up to brush along Hawke’s cheek. She huffs out a laugh and leans into the touch, closing her eyes.

“I don’t want to let you out of my sight,” he sighs, chuckling to himself. He’s rewarded with a broad smile as Hawke opens her eyes again.

“We’re home.” Her voice is little more than a murmur when she catches his hand and holds it, turning her face to brush a kiss to his palm. “We’re home and we’re going to spend the night with friends, and then someday soon I’m going to marry you.”

“My princess.” He leans in and kisses her, smiling against her smile. She bounces a little on her toes as he steps away, the grin she gives him almost girlish as she catches her lower lip in her teeth.

“Meet you downstairs, love.” Hawke holds his hand as long as she can when they step away from each other. He watches her go, staying in the hallway until she disappears into her room.

His room is as he left it, or at least as best he can recall. He laughs under his breath, shaking his head as he steps out of his boots, amused to think that he has no idea if he made the bed or not before he rode for Weisshaupt. 

The letter is sealed with deep red wax stamped with the seal of the Templar Order, but there is no other mark on the outside. Granger had a pile of papers with him when Sebastian saw him, yet this came from Neriah. A thought that is as much hope as suspicion forms in his mind as he turns the coarse paper in his hand. He breaks the seal with a finger, settling on the edge of the bed to read.

  
  


_ Your Royal Highness, _

_ I open this letter with the first of what will be several apologies. Please understand, it is difficult for me to think of you as my father, and to address you as such feels even stranger. I hope that this will change with time, but for now, please accept this more formal greeting. _

_ I write to you from Skyhold, home of the Inquisition. After meeting you, the Champion, and your Guard-Captain, I packed my things and left Starkhaven, wanting to see more of the world and understand more of the war and the forces that are moving to stop it. Again, I apologize. I know that there were actors in the city working to keep me safe, and that this goes directly counter to that effort, but I am a grown man and would be permitted to make my own choices. Please know that I am well, healthy and as warm as possible where we are now. _

_ All that anyone can speak about here are the events at Adamant. Reports are patchy, many of them told first-hand by those first to return, or from ravens sent by those on their way back to Skyhold, but all of them speak of the Champion’s bravery, her willingness to assist both the Inquisition and the Wardens in this conflict, to free them from the forces that chained them. There is talk of the Fade, but I am not certain I am prepared to believe it. _

_ I have heard other things as well. There are people here at Skyhold who were in Kirkwall with you and the Champion. I have spoken with them as much as they allow -  _ _ Knight  _ _ Commander Cullen, and Varric, the author - and while I did not expect it, both of them speak well of her, of her patience and diplomacy as well as her bravery and kindness. I confess, their tales of her do not match the tales that the Templars in Starkhaven were told, of a vigilante set on freedom for blood mages and death to the Templar Order. I regret that I was so harsh to her in our first meeting. Varric (he insists on this, no matter how many times I have called him Serah Tethras) has also explained to me the nature of your relationship with the Champion. I did not know, and I better understand now why you would choose to hide her from the Seekers of Truth and not offer her to the Chantry as requested. Having been to the Temple of Sacred Ashes and seeing the destruction there, I can understand not wanting anyone to be a part of such a thing. _

_ I hope it will please you to know that my stay here in the mountains will be brief. I have requested and been granted permission to join the soldiers that have been sent to Kirkwall. I asked for this in part so that I can be closer to home and somewhere with more hospitable temperatures, but also so that I can see for myself what happened to the city, and talk to those who were there to try to better understand. Kirkwall is the epicenter of so much of what has happened; I feel a need to study this conflict, to learn all that I can about the causes so that it does not happen again. _

_ May you walk in the Maker’s Light _

_ Markus Kindl  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! It really means a lot to me to see what people think of this story, and while I know I don't always keep up at replies, know that I read every comment and always want to respond. Sometimes I just need to find the words. 
> 
> Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


	36. The Cadence of Two Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wedding!! (That's it; that's the summary!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's amazing, gorgeous art is by [janearts on tumblr](https://janearts.tumblr.com). I am beyond thrilled with it and so glad to be able to finally share it with you all when I've had the commission for MONTHS. I love it so much and can't recommend Jane warmly enough if you're looking for DA art.
> 
> If you're reading this: Thank you!! I started this story in August 2018, and I still remember when I told a friend that I figured it'd be 35-40k, tops. I didn't think I had a story like this in me, and I'm pleased and proud to find that I did, and that I was able to create it and share it, and that others have enjoyed it. It was a real labor of love for characters who became quite dear to me, and I can't tell you how I appreciate you joining me on this journey.

The Chant of Light floats high and glittering above the congregation assembled in the Starkhaven Chantry. It must always be sung, but that does not mean that it must always take center stage. Today there will be other words spoken and vows taken, and so the chanters are moved far off the sides, all but hidden in shadows as if to give the illusion that the Chant is part of the air itself, seeping from the walls and statues or brought to life in smoke from burning candles.

Standing perfectly still was not so much a formal part of Sebastian’s training in his youth as a side effect of the other lessons he was taught, or a punishment for disobedience during his childhood. It’s a bittersweet realization as he stands at the base of the dais, and he rubs at the back of his father’s ring with his thumb as he looks out over the crowd. It is less filled than it was on his day as a chanter but he’s been informed that the crowds waiting outside are even larger than they were for his coronation. It seemed wrong when he’d first been told, but the more he rolls the information around in his mind, the more pleased he is to hear it. It’s better that more people should come out to celebrate love than the installation of a new leader. Indeed, he is hardly the focus of anyone’s attention right now, standing at the altar while the last few people are seated. Granger wanted him to have his own procession at the start, but Sebastian declined, preferring to wait at the altar. 

The front rows are filled with nobility and dignitaries as well as high-ranked members of the Chantry, both those that Sebastian is glad to see as well as those he could not avoid inviting. Orlesians hidden behind their masks fan themselves while the King of Ferelden shifts in his seat, arms folded across his chest as he looks about the Chantry. Starkhaven’s own nobles are dressed in their finest in rows of red and black or the shades of their own houses. Maresa is seated beside Hahren Bralhen at the corner of the first row beside an empty space, beautiful in a pale violet gown with a high neck and long, tight sleeves. On the opposite side of the aisle sit Aveline and Donnic, their arms wound together and heads bowed in whispered conversation. Aveline’s gown is a warm, soft gold and her hair is cut short.

Delphine was invited, and the invitation accepted, but Sebastian has no idea where she is among the crowd, and has no interest in finding her. Inviting her was simple courtesy, and he expected her to decline out of the same sense of propriety. Perhaps she will fail to make an appearance, but if she does then she will be welcome to watch the ceremony and their procession, but nothing more. In this, Sebastian was unusually explicit to the guards: She is not to be allowed into the Keep.

Movement at one of the upper levels draws his gaze. A cluster of red and gold uniformed guests are shown to their places, and Sebastian smiles to himself. Ambassador Montilyet accepted the invitation with a promise of emissaries, expressing courteous regret that the Inquisitor herself would not be able to make the journey to Starkhaven. She’d sent a list of names with Varric and Cullen among them as well as Markus Kindl. Try as he might, Sebastian is unable to distinguish the members of the Inquisition well enough to see him, and resigns himself to waiting until after the ceremony for a glimpse of his son. The letter he sent to Skyhold has seen no reply, but the journey from the Frostbacks is long and he is hopeful that they will have time to talk during the evening. He included as much information as he could about the Archent family and offered to help with evidence if Markus wishes to claim his place among them. Explaining Markus’ claim to the throne was harder to do on paper and is one of the things he hopes to discuss in person.

A murmur ripples through the crowd as someone rushes up the aisle, and Sebastian’s heart leaps into his throat. So much careful planning can be undone in a moment and there is so much attention on the Chantry today. A dozen scenarios flutter through his mind before he sees Granger drop into his seat beside Maresa. They whisper together a moment before both looking up to where Sebastian stands waiting.

“Your bride is outside, Your Majesty.” Sebastian turns from the crowd to the source of the soft Orlesian accent that greets him. Sister Nightingale takes her place on the dais, looking far different from the last time they met. Her hair is grown longer, but she still wears the same small braids, and the softness of the white and red robes is a far cry from the armor and daggers he recalls. Her eyes are still the same, however; so sharp and bright that he draws a breath to find her gaze locked onto him, one brow raised expectantly before she smiles and her countenance turns soft and youthful. He smiles back at her and gives a subtle nod. The timing of this is not his to command; he can only wait and hope to keep himself from rushing to meet her. The night before was the first one they spent apart since Weisshaupt, and he misses her already. 

Round, warm string music swells up from some unseen source and the congregation rise to their feet as one, all heads turning to look to the door. Merrill enters first, carrying a neatly folded pile of colored sashes with two golden rings atop them. It could be an odd choice to have the elven ambassador carrying the rings and sashes, but Merrill volunteered, apparently pleased at the idea of doing something so helpful and being able to be close to Hawke, as well as expressing fascination at Chantry wedding traditions. There are tiny blossoms in her hair. She is wrapped in deep green fabrics that seem to go into each other as they surround her, leaving her shoulders and arms bare while they flare out around her. The skirt is so long that one would have to look closely to see that she is making her way up the aisle barefoot, leaving a trail of rose petals in her wake, their origin unclear. She smiles warmly when she sees Maresa, then follows the stairs off to the left to come to stand beside Sebastian. Sister Nightingale takes the sashes with a quiet word of thanks, and Merrill nods, closing her hand around the rings.

Fenris follows with Bethany on his arm and Canut trotting behind them. His uniform is handsome, sleek and formal in black and silver with a cape that hangs to the backs of his thighs. Bethany’s gown is a deep, shimmering blue with a wide neckline, sparkling bodice and full skirt. Her hair hangs around her shoulders but is swept up away from her face, only a couple errant curls remaining. Fenris keeps his focus forward while Bethany glances around them at the crowd, lighting up in smiles or nodding to familiar faces. Sebastian smiles to himself when he sees her duck her head upon arriving at the front row and catching King Alistair’s gaze.

The pair separate, with Bethany going up the right side and Fenris going to the left. Canut follows Bethany obediently, a blue ribbon tied around his neck to match her gown. He meets Sebastian, sniffing at his hand just as Bethany takes her place beside Sister Nightingale. She calls the Mabari to her side, waiting until he’s sitting before looking up at Sebastian. Both she and Fenris are smiling, and Sebastian does his best to return it, but his face is half numb with excitement as he considers who the next person will be to come through the Chantry doors.

The music changes and a breath moves through the audience below. Sebastian glances to the side only long enough to see Bethany shake her head to try to fight off tears before he looks again to see shapes moving forward from the shadow of the aisle.

Time stops when he catches sight of Hawke below him, his breath stolen away to see her looking so radiant and proud, to think that such an occasion has anything at all to do with him. Her gown is a dense, solid fabric that holds its structure even at the soft curve of her shoulders, with a high collar at her neck, all of it in pristine white. The sleeves are tight all the way down her arms and come to points on the backs of her hands with gold detailing along her forearms. That same detailing decorates the bodice, with swirling embroidery and rows of golden chains that hang in soft loops, giving the gown almost the appearance of a uniform. A weighty gold belt decorated with intricate scrolling sits snugly around her waist, and below it the skirt flows out around her in the same structured fabric, wide but not obstructive, moving with her as she walks. She is framed by long hanging sleeves in the same fabric, falling straight and heavy from her shoulders to just above the floor, allowing for the train of the gown to move unobstructed. The bottom of the skirt is edged with more embroidery in the same deep gold. Over all of it floats a soft, simple veil that stops just above her waist in front, and falls as long as the train at the back. 

She keeps her head bowed as she makes her way slowly up the aisle, glancing only occasionally to the side where Varric walks beside her, dressed in a suit of sky blue, grey and black. Her hand rests on his raised forearm, and he covers it with his own. His gaze goes from her to the aisle before them and back with smooth precision, and Sebastian is moved to see the love in Varric’s eyes when he looks up at Hawke. 

Neriah follows after Hawke, grinning as she carries the end of the train into the Chantry. She is wearing a pale pink dress with cap sleeves and a bow at one hip, and her blonde hair hangs in two braids down her back, ribbons and flowers woven into them. Her smile is nervous, most of her attention on Hawke’s back save for a few quick glances up at Sebastian and those gathered with him, and a wide-eyed smile to Maresa before she leaves Hawke, hurrying up the stairs on the left side while Hawke and Varric turn to the right. Merrill’s trail of rose petals is renewed as Hawke walks, leaving golden petals along the aisle behind her. Sebastian steals a glance at Bethany, who merely raises an eyebrow and smiles at him. 

There is beauty in the pageantry of the slow procession, but every fiber of Sebastian’s being is crying out to him to go to her, and he has to fight to keep himself still at the dais. He runs a hand down the front of his uniform, noting now that his attire is made of the same material; it has the same gold detailing, though across his chest are bars rather than delicate chains. His coat has the same high collar, and his sleeves have the same long line of buttons as her gown. Even the belts around their waists are similar, though his is adorned with the buckle that normally accompanies his armor. Granger and those he tasked to help him have left no detail unaccounted for. 

Hawke’s hair is swept back from her face and gathered in a braid that falls straight down her back, loose and wavy and soft. Tiny pearls and blossoms are tucked into the folds of her braid. All of her is white and gold, and she shines as she makes her way up the last length of the aisle, her dress coming to life when she steps into the circle of light that falls from the stained glass window of the Chantry. The contours and seams all fall away as she is bathed in rainbow light, and Sebastian sees her smile to herself as she continues to the altar to meet him.

Hawke looks up at him from under heavy lashes, and even through the veil he can see that she is blushing. Varric squeezes her hand before stepping away, both Sebastian and Hawke watching as he moves off to the side to stand with Fenris.

“I love you, Angel.”

“Love you too, Varric,” she murmurs back.

Hawke curtsies before Sebastian, deep and respectful, sinking into her skirt and lowering her head until her forehead touches the back of his hand where she holds it. They agreed beforehand that she would pledge no oath of fealty to him in public beyond the promises they make to each other as man and wife, her own coronation as Princess taking place the day before in the throne room with only friends and the Revered Mother present. Her skin is warm and dry through the veil, and he has to fight to keep himself from turning his hand to touch her face. He’d been surprised by her earnest insistence on formality in the Chantry when it came up, but he wants to honor her wishes, and so he makes no move. 

“You’re beautiful,” he breathes as she rises without letting go of his hand. He holds it to steady her as she joins him on the dais, and he sees her smile at his whisper. The assistance isn’t needed, but he is reluctant to let her go now that she’s finally here with him. Bethany steps forward and takes her bouquet, smiling at both of them before returning to the side along with Merrill.

The audience sits when Sister Nightingale raises her hands, and all attention turns to her, even if Sebastian cannot help but glance at Hawke often. 

“Dearly beloved, friends and family, allies and companions, we are gathered here today in the light of the Maker to witness the union of two souls, two hearts who will join in holy matrimony. We are gathered here, not to witness the beginning of what will be, but rather what already is. We do not create this marriage, because we cannot. We can and do, however, celebrate with Sebastian and Padi the wondrous and joyful occurrence that has already taken place in their lives, and the commitment they make today.”

Hawke draws a quiet breath beside him, and Sebastian squeezes her hand. Sister Nightingale gives her a nod small enough to be imperceptible from the gallery below. 

“We ask on this day for blessings for them in the light of the Maker, and blessing from His Bride, Andraste.” She looks to Sebastian expectantly, and he nods a thank you to her before turning to look at Hawke. 

“I asked if it would be all right for me to take this part,” he explains in a whisper. “I always liked it, though I never imagined it could be something said for me.”

They turn, still hand in hand, to face the audience, and Sebastian speaks for all to hear.

“Blessed be this union in the Light of the East. Communication of the heart, mind, and body, fresh beginnings with the rising of each sun, and the knowledge of the growth found in the sharing of silences.”

He and Hawke take a quarter turn to the left and he continues. “Blessed be this union in the Light of the South. Warmth of hearth and home, heat of the heart's passion, and the light created by both to illuminate the darkest of times. Blessed be this union in the Light of the West. The deep commitments of the lake, the swift excitement of the river, the refreshing cleansing of the rain, and the all encompassing passion of the sea. Blessed be this union in the Light of the North. A firm foundation on which to build, fertility of the fields to enrich our lives, and a stable home to which we may always return.”

Each verse is accompanied with a turn until they stand face to face and find each other’s hands again. Sister Nightingale smiles at Sebastian, her nod this time satisfied, and he grins to himself, pleased to have gotten through all the blessings without struggle. Days of recitation in his office bore fruit, and he is relieved as he swallows, his mouth gone dry. 

“The Prince and Princess will now give their own vows,” Sister Nightingale says, spreading her hands to frame the two of them. Much of the ceremony was approved by Sebastian in advance, but Hawke was careful to speak nothing of her vows to him while they planned. Joyful expectation pulls at the corners of his mouth as he faces her and she takes his other hand, holding both of them in both of hers.

“You cannot possess me for I belong to myself.” Her eyes are downcast, looking at their joined hands when she starts, but after a moment she lifts her chin and her gaze to look him in the eyes. He recognizes the line as traditional Fereldan vows and his smile softens while he continues to listen in silence, giving her his utmost attention, taking in every small movement of her eyes and basking in the love reflected there. “While we both wish it, I give you that which is mine to give. You cannot command me, for I am a free person, but I shall serve you in those ways you request, and the honeycomb will taste sweeter coming from my hand. I pledge to you that yours will be the name I--” There is a quick pause in her recitation, and a slight incline to her head at the next words, one corner of her mouth twitching into a grin. “Whisper in the night, and the eyes into which I smile in the morning. I pledge to you the first bite of my meat and the first drink from my cup. I pledge to you my living and my dying, each equally in your care. I shall be a shield for your back and you for mine. I shall not slander you, nor you me. I shall honor you above all others, and when we quarrel we shall do so in private and tell no strangers our grievances. This is my vow to you, Sebastian, a promise made between equals.” 

He lets go of her hand only long enough to wipe at his eyes, brushing away the tears that cling to his lashes. “You are the star of each night and the brightness of every morning,” he begins. “You are the story of each guest and the report of every land. No evil shall befall you, on hill nor bank, in field or valley, on mountain or in glen, when I am at your side. Neither above, nor below, neither in sea, nor on shore, in skies above, nor in the depths. You are the kernel of my heart, the face of my sun, the harp of my music and the voice of my song. You are the crown of my company. I pledge to you this day and always to love you, to comfort and care for you, to protect you and to allow you to protect me as well. I will share with you all that I have and never shall you want for anything that I can provide. I pledge to honor you, to speak only truth to you, only kindness. This is my vow to you, Padi, a promise made between equals.” 

She grins wide at the last line, and heat presses on his cheeks and the sides of his neck. It was not something he’d written for his own, but he would offer her nothing less. She is his Princess, and he will be her husband, and while he would gladly hold her up above all others, that is not what she would want. 

“Ambassador, do you have the rings?” Sister Nightingale looks to the side where Merrill stands waiting. She nods, stepping forward and unfolding her hand to show the two simple, golden bands held within. 

Sister Nightingale takes the rings and hands them to Sebastian and Hawke. 

“Sebastian, you first. Please repeat after me,” she instructs with amused warmth. Sebastian gives her a deferential nod, looking from her to Hawke as he listens, and then speaks.

“I choose you, Padi Hawke, above all others, to be my wife. I offer this ring as a token of our love, and with it I join my life to yours.”

Both of their hands tremble as he slips the ring onto her finger. He catches her hand when she starts to pull away, bringing it to his lips to kiss the ring, and her finger underneath it.

“I choose you, Sebastian Vael, above all others, to be my husband. I offer this ring as a token of our love, and with it I join my life to yours.”

She slides the ring on with less trouble than he had, laying her hand flat over top of his when she finishes.

Sister Nightingale picks up the sashes from the podium. “Please join hands.”

While he is loathe to have any more distance between them, Sebastian mirrors Hawke and takes half a step back as he takes her hand, allowing room for Sister Nightingale to reach between them.

“In the presence of all assembled and in the Light of the Maker, I now bind your hands together, to symbolize your new union of love, trust and friendship.”

She lays the first sash across their hands, looping it once around each of them and tying it loosely underneath. “Crimson, for strength, courage, and health in all your days.” The next sash covers the first, and Sister Nightingale speaks again. “Orange, for encouragement between each other, adaptability in all things, and kindness both within and without. White, for purity of spirit, of soul, of love; for peace; for devotion to each other, and together to the Maker. Gray, for balance, for neutrality, for new starts and returns, removal of the old, or a return without repercussion.”

Hawke’s hand tightens around his within the wrap of sashes and she gives him a tiny nod. “Return without repercussions,” she whispers.

The last sash glitters in the light around them, and Sister Nightingale lifts it up for all to see before placing it around their hands. “Gold, for unity, longevity, and prosperity for yourselves and those in your life.”

She straightens and steps back from them. “In the joining of hands and the fashion of a knot, so are your lives now bound, one to another. May this knot remain tied for as long as love shall last. May this cord draw your hands together in love, never to be used in anger. May the vows you have spoken never grow bitter in your mouths. May it be granted that what is done before the Maker be not undone by man. Two entwined in love, bound by commitment and fear, sadness and joy, by hardship and victory, anger and reconciliation, all of which brings strength to this union. Hold tight to one another through both good times and bad, and watch as your strength grows.”

Their hands tremble while Sister Nightingale removes the thick sashes from around their hands and wrists, but they don’t let go even when the final one is lifted off. He squeezes her hand at the same time as she squeezes his, and she smiles shyly at him from beneath the veil, sweeter and more coy than he can ever recall seeing her.

“In the name of the Maker and His Bride Andraste, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Hawke leans towards him just enough to allow him to lift the veil, and he’s careful to negotiate it over her diadem, turning the edges so that it falls elegantly along her back. She is perfect in every way, the most beautiful and regal bride that he has ever seen, and he will not have that spoiled by his own clumsiness and nerves.

Her smile is wide and bright, almost twitching at the corners as if she is about to speak or laugh, but her eyes are alight with love and joy, even if they are drier than Sebastian’s own, Hawke’s image swimming for a moment as he blinks back a tear.

There is a hush over the Chantry, and time slows where they stand. He would gladly keep them in this bubble forever, but he is also eager for them to start their life together, Prince and Princess, man and wife.

He sets a hand on the side of her neck and pulls her close, tilting his head to kiss her. Her lips are warm and soft, and they smile against each other’s mouths as a cheer goes up from all assembled, Merrill’s voice carrying over almost everyone’s. Sebastian’s hand brushes against something cold and hard at the back of Hawke’s neck, and he breaks the kiss just enough to pull back and look into her eyes.

“Runes of cooling,” she whispers, grinning at him. “Bethany fitted them into the gown and put that one in my hair. This dress is sweltering.” She glances at him, up, down, and to his eyes again. “You mean she didn’t give you any in that uniform?”

Sebastian laughs, shaking his head as he kisses her again, his other arm snaking under the cloak to wrap around her waist. The jubilation in the Chantry swells, and when they pull apart again, they are both breathless and grinning.

Sebastian clutches her hand as they make their way down the stairs, and where Hawke was reserved on her procession up to the altar, she is now smiling and laughing as they head outside. Everyone is standing as they walk back up the aisle, many reaching out a hand to offer congratulations and well wishes as they go. Sebastian nods to most of them, returning the gesture only for a select few, including Rory Brenn, who nods and grins at him through his bushy beard, tears shining in the corners of his eyes when Sebastian clasps his forearm. 

He and Hawke burst out onto the steps of the Chantry to be greeted by a cacophony of sound and music. There is a fanfare, but it fades in comparison to the crowd, many having brought their own horns and drums to the celebration. Children sit on their parents’ shoulders to see and many people have dressed up for the occasion, turning up in their finest clothes to catch a glimpse of the newlywed couple. People are waving colored flags or kerchiefs, and the city beyond them is decked in streamers and bunting, long rows of pennants stretching rainbows between buildings. Pride swells in Sebastian’s chest and he pulls down on Hawke’s hand to bring them close together.

“I think they like you more than they like me,” he whispers, leaning in close to her ear. 

“I think they like us.” She turns to look at him as she replies, her voice low but loud enough to be heard over the crowd. “I think they like thinking that you’re happy, and I think they like seeing us all dressed up. You want to see them go wild?” 

Sebastian suspects he knows what she means, her smile curling up on one side when she pulls back a little to look into his eyes. He returns the smile and nods, then wraps his arm around her waist to pull her in for a kiss. The crowd outside the Chantry erupts at the gesture, and both of them are grinning when they pull away from each other, turning to wave and acknowledge the cheers. Not since his childhood did Sebastian imagine that his kissing someone would be something that people would encourage and want him to do more often. He sways at the strength of the reaction as a strange wave of relief rolls over him. 

There’s motion out of the corner of his eye as Granger comes to stand alongside him. “Your horse awaits, Your Highnesses.” He leans forward enough to meet Hawke’s eyes as well, nodding to her as he sweeps his arm out before both of them to where a horse stands waiting at the foot of the Chantry stairs.

The steed is so large that there are small steps to the side of him, dressed in the same elegant white and gold as the horse’s tack. His mane and tail are decorated with small braids and ribbons, and he is the purest shade of white that Sebastian’s ever seen on an animal, with no trace of grey or brown in any of the hair. 

“Merrill tells me they found him on a farm tilling earth,” Hawke explains as they descend the stairs. “Apparently the farmer was in the Chantry today, and we should find him to thank him later for letting us borrow him. He’s beautiful. Yes, you are!” The horse’s ears flick towards them as they approach and Hawke shifts seamlessly from talking to Sebastian to talking to the horse instead. She receives no reply from the beast but a shake of his mane, as if he is already assured of his own handsomeness and doesn’t need the reminder.

Sebastian climbs into the saddle first and is immediately grateful that it will be a relatively short trip from the Chantry to the Keep, and not any particularly fast pace. The horse is much broader than any other he’s ever sat on and does not make for the most comfortable transportation. Hawke waits at the top of the steps, taking his hand for help as he pulls her up into the saddle with him. She sits in front, tucked snugly against him, sitting side saddle so that her gown falls elegantly down along the horse’s side. A seamstress far smarter than Sebastian has fitted loops into the underside of the skirt so that Hawke can pull it up enough to keep it from dragging on the ground, and after a moment’s adjustment, she is resting against his chest, steady and prepared for the ride to the Keep. A servant hands the reins up to Sebastian with a smile and he lifts one side to loop them around Hawke. The horse will hardly need much instruction, but he will not risk anything going wrong, not today and not in front of the whole city.

The crowd reacts to every step of the process, cheering Sebastian when he seats himself and then again when Hawke joins him. The celebration intensifies again when Sebastian flicks the reins and pulls the horse around to start off towards the Keep. The horse sets a lazy pace as if he understands that part of the purpose of this is to allow the city a better look at the couple, to let them offer shouted congratulations and well wishes, and to allow Hawke and Sebastian both to bask in it. The horses shies once and Sebastian slips an arm around Hawke’s waist to hold her safe. They both lean over to see what caused the horse to startle, only to find Canut trotting alongside them, tongue lolling out as he keeps pace with the procession. 

“Don’t spook the horse,” Hawke calls down to him, and Canut looks up and barks once, order received and apparently understood. He stops to sniff children’s hands and accept treats and pats, but always comes back to their side after a moment, not straying from Hawke for long. Sebastian watches him and watches the crowd, but he doesn’t nod and wave and accept their attention the same way he did on his coronation. This is not only for him, and it is not the love of the crowd which is his focus today. 

Hawke’s arm rests over his where he’s still wrapped around her waist, her fingers drawing soft lines from his knuckles to his wrist and back. He watches her as they make their way to the Keep, drinking in every small detail of how her face changes when she smiles at a little girl or nods in gratitude to a woman placing flowers at the feet of their horse as they pass. She is radiant in the sunshine and love pushes at Sebastian’s ribs and up into his throat as he looks at her. Even as she turns her attention time and again to the city around them, her gentle touches on his hand never stop, reassurance that she is here with him and they are together. Sebastian never hoped for a Princess, never hoped to have a throne to share with anyone, but she is more than he could ever have imagined in his wildest dreams. He already knows well that he is a better man with her at his side, and Starkhaven will be better with her looking after it.

“I love you,” he whispers, and her eyes dart away from the people around them as she turns to look at him, grinning. Her diadem glitters and she is surrounded by the soft cloud of her veil. 

“I love you, too. Good thing, I think, given that I’m your wife now.” She bumps against him affectionately and he returns the gesture by pulling his arm tighter around her. The word is still foreign to him, though  _ husband  _ is stranger still. He was never meant to be that to anyone, and yet here he is on his wedding day. 

The Keep grows before them as they continue on their way, the crowd’s composition not quite shifting as it had during his coronation, thanks in large part to most of the nobility being in the Chantry and now in the procession behind them. A group of servants wait with another set of steps, moving quickly and quietly to take the reins and offer assistance first to Hawke, then to Sebastian as they climb down from the horse. His work done for the day, he is more than content to be led away with the promise of apples, ambling off towards the stables and allowing this new crowd a clear view of the newlyweds.

The front of the Keep has been transformed since he left it in the early morning to go to the Chantry. Long banners of white edged with gold frame the doors, and huge flags of Starkhaven heraldry fly from every mast. Pots of flowers stand along the steps as well as guards in glittering armor, their halberds decorated with familiar red and black pennants.

Sebastian makes no effort to hide his eagerness as he rushes to Hawke’s side, grabbing her hand and pulling her in for another kiss. This crowd is too far away to have seen anything at the Chantry, and already he’s certain it’s been far too long since he kissed her. Her skin is warm from the sun and he feels the smoothness of the ring against his cheek when she brings her hand up to his face. 

Hawke is wearing a wedding ring that matches the ring on his own hand, because Hawke is married to him. He is the Prince of Starkhaven, standing on the steps of the Keep, kissing his wife on their wedding day. He, Sebastian Vael, is Prince of Starkhaven and Apadiel Hawke is his wife, Princess of Starkhaven. They are husband and wife, and they will lead Starkhaven together.

Hawke pulls back and looks at him with furrowed brows when he draws a sharp breath, fighting to keep it from turning into a sob. Her image swims before him as he blinks back tears, shaking his head and grinning at her. 

“This is so much more than I ever thought I’d have in my life. I can’t believe today is really happening,” he sighs, shaking his head. It’s a new sensation to him, to be so overwhelmed by happiness instead of sorrow. 

This time it is not a kiss but an embrace that pulls the crowd to life, as Hawke wraps her arms around Sebastian and draws him close to her. He returns the gesture, burrowing into the crook of her neck and closing his eyes.

“Today is real, and I’m here with you every step of it, Sebastian,” she murmurs. “Today and every day afterwards. I promised, and I meant it.”

He nods, straightening away from her as he collects himself again, reaching out to right the edge of her veil and brush her hair away from her cheek. She leans into the touch and his balance returns to him, the moment passing by.

The others are arriving behind them, Chantry leadership and nobility as well as their family and friends. Bethany hugs both of them at once, muttering an apology for Canut slipping out of her grasp. Merrill and Fenris join them on the stairs along with Varric, while Maresa and Neriah stay a few steps away, watching and smiling.

“There is to be a fireworks display at nightfall,” Fenris informs them, an unexpected note of warmth in his usual business-like tone. “Apparently someone sent an entire barge of Qunari fireworks and parked it on the far shore of the Minanter just east of the city. There was no note left, however.”

Sebastian nods. “It would have to be someone with knowledge of both the Qunari and ships then, I suppose,” he muses, trying to sound thoughtful but unable to keep from smiling at news of the gift. He’d hoped that Isabela would return for the day; there is no one else who would send such a gift, however, and even if she doesn’t arrive herself, he is glad to find that he and Hawke are in her thoughts and that the occasion is not forgotten.

Granger bounds up the stairs to them, sweat beading at his hairline as he gestures towards the doors. “Please, please, let’s start making our way inside. You need to get in place for the receiving line, come!”

Sebastian and Hawke exchange a glance, Hawke shrugging with her eyebrows. Granger has gone to great lengths to arrange every minute of the day, and while Sebastian doesn’t relish the idea of the receiving line, he understands the necessity of such a thing and follows along without complaint, Hawke’s hand held in both of his as they go.

The line of nobles and dignitaries stretches endlessly, but Hawke’s calm presence at his side is a constant source of patience as he shakes hands and kisses cheeks, accepting congratulations and repeating names in an effort to remember them. While he is grateful to all of them for sharing in this day, there are few in the line who provoke deeper reactions from him. Warden Brenn and his sister are a welcome sight, both of them dressed in blue and grey, Jessa’s dress sewn to match her brother’s finery. King Alistair Theirin is kind if a bit rambling in his congratulations, and Sebastian and Hawke exchange a glance when Bethany meets him at the end of the line and they walk away arm in arm. Cullen surprises them both with the warmth of his greeting, offered with a respect and humbleness that Sebastian did not expect, but which he is glad to see. Cassandra is still dabbing at the corner of her eye with a kerchief, though she gives a knowing look that moves from bride to groom as she shakes each of their hands. The rest of the Inquisition presence are more formally polite, Sister Nightingale now a part of their number again. Markus comes last among them, holding Sebastian’s gaze and his grip for a long time.

“I’m glad to see you well,” Sebastian offers, unsure what else to say. This is not the time or place for longer discussions, though he does hope to have one before Markus returns to the Inquisition. 

“And you as well. Congratulations to both of you,” he replies, letting go of Sebastian’s arm and turning to Hawke, catching her hand only to lean down and kiss it. “Your Highness.”

Hawke glances at Sebastian with raised brows, then nods and smiles at Markus’ gesture. “It’s good to see you back in the city. I hope we find time to talk more this evening.”

Markus brightens at that, nodding in response. “I as well. I will be in Starkhaven for a few days before I move on to Kirkwall to assist there.” His eyes move from Hawke to Sebastian. “Perhaps we can find some time before I go.”

The suggestion is more than Sebastian hoped for, and he nods firmly, already thinking through the coming days to decide when would be best for them to meet.

“Congratulations again,” Markus offers, “and thank you for allowing me to be a part of this day.”

He moves on before either of them can say any more, though both Hawke and Sebastian are momentarily distracted as they watch him disappear into the crowd in the hall beyond. They return to the line and continue with polite conversation and handshakes, the occasional hug, and Sebastian finds his energy renewed for dealing with a succession of nobles and Chantry officials. His arm and cheeks are tired by the time the line ends and he is grateful to see Granger coming to lead them to dinner. The Seneschal has put in countless hours making sure everything runs smoothly, with both passion and talent for details that Sebastian would not have anticipated. 

That same interest in details extends to dinner as well. Each dish is chosen from either Hawke or Sebastian’s favorites, with lambs provided by King Alistair himself and a seemingly endless supply of smoked fish from the alienage. The desserts are tart and citrusy, piled high with whipped cream, or dark with sweet berries and glittering sugar. Just as with his coronation, there are speeches this time, though none that result in a guest being removed from the room. Varric dazzles all assembled with a tale of romantic heroics so far removed from reality that Sebastian considers stopping him, but he is stilled by Hawke’s hand covering his own as if she’s read his thoughts. The story ends with Sebastian swooning in Hawke’s arms and Sebastian ducks his head, waving a little in acceptance of the laughter and applause that follows. He is content to let Hawke be painted as the hero and savior in the tale of how they found each other, and even afterwards. There is no doubt in his mind that she saved him, not only from bandits but from loneliness and a lifetime of solitude, a future he was not unwilling to face, but which pales in comparison to the path before him now. 

The last dishes are cleared away and Granger manifests at Sebastian’s side again, though this time he needs no instructions to know what comes next. So much of this is like his coronation, like the birthday parties held for his father or the diplomatic visits from Orlais and Ferelden in his youth. After dinner comes dancing, the last planned part of the celebration.

Guests are shown down to the ballroom and Sebastian finds himself at the top of the staircase with Hawke once again. Her veil was carefully removed by two servants before dinner, but the diadem remains, glittering in the candlelight as Hawke watches the guests below. Sebastian sets a hand on her waist, somehow that much more slender in the gown, and whirls her out of the light of the doorway, drawing them both into the shadow beside it. He sets his back to the wall and pulls her tight against him, one hand on her jaw and the other moving to the small of her back as he kisses her, swallowing her gasp of surprise. One hand rests on his chest while the other settles on his waist, and she leans against him as she kisses him back.

“We haven’t had a moment alone all day,” she murmurs, pulling away just enough to speak, her breath warm on his skin and their noses brushing against each other. “I didn’t think it was possible to miss someone when you’re right next to them and just got married to them, but all this formality is so stiff.” She rests against him and he wraps his arms around her, keeping her close.

“We still have some dancing to do, but after the first one, things will lighten up, and as I understand it from Granger, we’re not expected to stay until everyone else leaves.”

She nestles herself into the crook of his neck. “You’re sure we can’t just stay right here until they all give up on waiting and go home?”

Sebastian chuckles, then hums. His heart flutters in his chest, and he can see the appeal in the idea, but there is also a part of him that looks forward to the dance, recalling what Varric said about how they move together, fighting as well as dancing. “Unfortunately, I’m sure. And I don’t want to deny them all a chance to see you again. You’re breathtaking.”

It’s her turn to chuckle, but she straightens as she does, setting a hand on his chest. “You’re not so bad yourself. You look regal.” She traces some of the embroidery on his coat with her finger. “This suits you, I think.”

Warmth curls through him, following the path of her touch. He catches her hand with his own and reluctantly pushes away from the wall, walking backwards and leading her with him. “Come on, Princess.”

She gives him a wry smile but offers no resistance as they move to the top of the stairs. “I could get used to that, you know.”

“I should hope so,” he replies, keeping his voice low as the herald announces them. “You’re going to hear it a lot from now on.”

A hush falls over the room as they make their way down the stairs, eyes turning to watch them and gazes landing on Sebastian until the weight of them becomes tangible on his shoulders and chest. It lifts when Hawke squeezes his hand, however, and he smiles at her as they make their way to the center of the dance floor. There is no one else, and he feels unusually exposed, more accustomed to dancing surrounded by groups or other couples. 

The music starts when they step across the gilded threshold onto the tiles of black and white marble that make up the dance floor. A single cello sings a melody out into the air around them as they bow to each other, Sebastian still holding her hand as he bends before her and she sinks into a deep curtsy. His hand finds her waist, their other arms held out to the side as they start moving together. He keeps the steps simple, moving them in a circle and twirling Hawke out once only to pull her close again. A wave of soft gasps moves through the crowd as her gown flows around her, and she’s glowing when she looks up at him again, cheeks flushed and eyes shining. He pulls her closer, wrapping his arm around her as they make their way around the floor again.

Sebastian finds himself pulled along by the music, able to dance without so much conscious thought, he focuses instead on Hawke, taking in the way she glances at the crowd on the edges of the dance floor, the way her hand feels in his, the softness of her gown under his fingers. The melody is unfamiliar but the piece moves in predictable ways, allowing him to time flourishes, twirling Hawke around and wrapping her in his arms, her back pressed to his chest for a moment. When she turns again, she stays close, resting her head on his chest, one arm curled around his shoulder while he holds her other hand close. When the song ends, they are barely dancing, swaying in time together and wrapped around each other.

Polite applause fills the room around them. He meets Hawke’s eyes and sees in the gaze the same sort of newly woken awareness in her that he finds in himself. That there was anyone else in the room other than her was momentarily forgotten, and it is only with effort that he steps away from her, bowing to the crowd to thank them.

The next song is a lively invitation to dance and the floor fills quickly around them, many couples offering congratulations as they whirl past. Sebastian is relieved to step out of the spotlight, at least to some degree, while at the same time he longs for nothing more than to be alone with Hawke again. One glance tells him that she feels much the same way, and when they take up the dance they stay close. The current of dancers swirls around them, and he is content to let them move while he holds her, registering those who pass on well wished only long enough to nod in gratitude. Bethany and King Alistair pass them, as well as Merill and Maresa. Markus surprises him by dancing with Neriah, both of their brows furrowed in concentration as they try to keep up with those around them. 

A memory flashes through him of another ball, another dance and mistake upon mistake that Sebastian made afterwards. Tonight, however, there is no hesitation, no fear of who will see or what they will think. Those eager to watch him fall into past habits or those who wish to push their sons and daughters on him no longer know him, nor do they know the woman at his side, and they have no understanding of the love between them. They are married in the Light of the Maker and the Chantry can not argue against it.

He pulls her close when the music stops, one arm around her waist, the other still raised where he holds her hand. A shadow crosses her eyes as the same memory appears for her, and he gives the tiniest shake of his head before kissing her, bringing her hand in to rest on his chest so that he can wrap his other arm around her. He leans in when her other hand cups his jaw, smiling against her smile and loosening his hold when she bounces on her toes. She breaks the kiss only to throw her arms around his neck, and he lifts her from the ground to twirl both of them in an embrace. Her laughter is like music, and she wraps her arms around his neck, holding tight to hang on him even when he sets her down again.

“You have seen me when no other would recognize my face,” she murmurs, turning to brush a kiss to his jawline.

Sebastian smiles, turning just enough to kiss her cheek in reply. Today is a new start for them, and from now they will go forward together. “And you composed the cadence of my heart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! It really means a lot to me to see what people think of this story, and while I know I don't always keep up at replies, know that I read every comment and always want to respond. Sometimes I just need to find the words. 
> 
> Please come say hello on [my tumblr](http://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com) if you're there! :)


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